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THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 


THE 
FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 


BY 

HAMILTON  FYFE 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  WIDOWS  CRUSE' 


'Do  men  gather  grapea  of  thorns,  or  fig$  of  thistle*?' 


w 


New  York 

THOMAS  SELTZER 

1922 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
Thouas  Seltzeb,  lira 


All  right$  reterved 


nuKTED  nr  thz  uaitcd  btatks  or  aiobbioa 


THE  FRUIT  or  THE  TREE 


2135461 


THE 

FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

CHAPTER  I 


We  often  hear  it  pleaded  that  "the  facts  of 
nature"  should  be  explained  to  children.  It  may 
be  desirable  to  make  such  teaching  general,  yet 
it  is  certain  that  those  who  plead  for  it  exaggerate 
the  number  of  children  who  require  instruction. 
In  large  famihes  there  is  never  any  ignorance  of 
natural  processes. 

Muriel  Oversedge  and  her  elder  brothers  and 
sisters  were  well  acquainted  with  the  causes 
which  yearly  turned  their  household  upside  down, 
took  their  mother  away  from  them,  brought  the 
doctor  as  a  daily  visitant,  added  to  the  family 
another  boy  or  girl,  and  at  last  returned  their 
mother  rather  paler  and  more  flaccid  and  less 
energetic  than  before. 

They  all  hated  these  interruptions  to  the  flow 
of  daily  Hfe.  To  begin  with,  they  resented  the 
disappearance  of  their  mother.  They  were  used 
to  resort  to  her  in  any  difficulty  or  distress.  She 
never  failed  them,  never  came  the  disapproving 
parent  over  them.  If  she  were  alarmed  by  their 
rash  or  criminal  designs  (such  as  introducing  a 

5 


6        .THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

swarm  of  bees  stupefied  by  smoke  into  church  on 
a  Sunday  morning  before  service,  or  getting  up 
an  Ellerslie  Derby  on  Derby  Day  with  horses 
borrowed  without  leave,  in  the  dinner  hour,  from 
the  nearest  farm)  she  would  beg  that  for  her  sake 
these  designs  should  not  be  pursued.  If  she 
scolded  them,  she  did  it  as  one  of  themselves, 
using  their  own  expressions,  giving  vent  to  a 
personal  grievance,  never  taking  the  high  line 
of  reproof  or  assuming  the  pontifical  air  of  a 
grown-up. 

When  "Mims"  was  withdrawn  from  them, 
there  was  no  one  to  send  word  to  the  kitchen 
that  sandwiches  were  to  be  cut  for  large  exciting 
excursions  which  would  be  spoiled  by  return  for 
midday  dinner;  there  was  no  one  to  read  to  the 
smaller  children  before  they  went  to  bed;  rents 
in  the  boys'  trousers  had  to  be  exhibited  to  the 
disapproving  gaze  of  Aunt  Sybilla;  difficulties 
in  the  girls'  "prep"  could  only  be  solved  by 
confronting  father  in  his  study,  and  trying  to  un- 
derstand his  grunting  explanations.  And  then 
there  was  always  in  the  hearts  of  the  older  chil- 
dren the  fear  that  "something  might  happen" 
to  Mims.  They  suspected  the  doctor;  he  was  an 
"old  stuff er"  who  treated  them  all  with  a  con- 
descending patting  joviality,  as  if  they  were 
imbeciles  or  little  dogs.  Suppose  he  made  a 
muddle  of  it? 

Luckily  there  was  Nurse.  She  could  be 
trusted.  Ever  since  they  could  remember  she 
had  arrived  at  these  uncomfortable  seasons, 
smiling  her  queer  smile,  which  gave  you  confi- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE         7. 

(dence,  moving  about  with  alert  decision  of  move- 
ment, taking  charge  of  everything  and  every- 
body, with  ironical  self-assurance  and  good 
humour.  She  was  the  only  compensating  element 
in  a  world  gone  suddenly  awry.  The  whole 
pleasant  machinery  of  life  was  thrown  out  of 
gear.  It  had  to  be  remembered  that  noise  was 
forbidden.  And  what  enjoyment  could  there  be 
without  noise?  One  had  to  tiptoe  about  the 
house,  to  close  doors  quietly,  to  use  the  stairs  for 
descent  and  not  the  banister-rail.  Sometimes  it 
was  as  much  as  the  children  could  do  to  get  their 
meals  served  to  them  from  a  kitchen  distracted 
by  unusual  and  urgent  demands. 

Father  at  such  periods  was  really  less  than  no 
help  at  all.  The  truth  was,  they  perceived,  that 
he  more  desolately  than  any  of  them  missed  Mims 
from  her  customary  seat  at  table  opposite  to  him, 
and  from  her  corner  of  the  Chesterfield  that  was 
always  drawn  up  in  front  of  the  drawing-room 
fire.  He  never  liked  the  tea  that  Muriel  poured 
out  for  him,  sniffed  at  it  discontentedly,  asked 
either  for  more  water  or  more  sugar  or  less  milk. 
He  hated  sitting  down  to  dinner  by  himself,  yet 
he  hated  worse  having  Muriel  and  Douglas,  the 
two  eldest  of  the  children,  to  keep  him  company 
and  being  obliged  to  make  conversation.  To  his 
wife  he  read  out  always  at  their  evening  meal 
scraps  from  the  evening  paper  and  could  rely 
upon  hearing  from  her  placid  lips  appropriate 
comments.  Deprived  of  this  soothing  expedient 
for  getting  through  dinner  comfortably,  he  took 
no  pleasure  in  his  food.    The  news  in  the  paper 


8        (THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

seemed  trivial  because  she  was  not  there  to  share 
it  with  him. 

He  was  a  helpless  kind  of  man;  even  the 
yomiger  children  could  see  that.  How  he  made 
so  prosperous  a  living  none  of  his  acquaintances 
could  understand.  Those  who  were  in  the  ivory 
trade  with  him  knew  that  he  owed  his  good  in- 
come to  a  rare  capacity  for  judging  tusks  by 
touch.  It  was  a  gift,  inherited,  as  he  beheved, 
from  his  father,  but  more  probably  communi- 
cated by  imperceptible  training  while  they  were 
in  business  together.  As  the  family  grew,  so  did 
his  business,  and  this  was  fortunate,  for  Mims 
had  no  money  nor  had  he  any  private  fortune. 
The  men  who  travelled  up  and  down  with  him 
every  morning  and  evening  between  Ellerslie  and 
the  city  used  to  tell  each  other  that  they  ought  to 
offer  him  sympathy  rather  than  congratulations 
as  each  new  baby  arrived.  Yet  they  could  not 
see  that  his  responsibilities  made  any  mark  upon 
him.  He  regarded  children  in  exactly  the  same 
way  as  he  regarded  the  weather ;  both  came  as  it 
pleased  some  Superior  Power;  he  had  no  control 
over  either. 

On  the  whole  he  disliked  the  climate,  and  on 
the  whole  he  would  have  preferred  to  be  without 
children.  Not  that  he  had  any  particular  objec- 
tion to  his  own  children;  they  seemed  to  him 
rather  good  specimens,  well-grown,  good-look- 
ing, steady-eyed.  But  he  would  have  preferred 
to  enjoy  the  society  of  his  wife  without  distraction 
and  without  having  to  share  her  affection  with 
their  offspring.    He  did  not  grumble,  however, 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE        9 

any  more  than  he  grumbled  at  fog  in  November 
or  cold  winds  in  June.  He  was  a  man  who  took 
everything  as  it  came. 

His  only  approach  to  revolt,  even  in  thought, 
was  at  the  periods,  recurring  regularly,  when 
Nurse  took  charge  of  the  household  and  he  was 
robbed  of  his  wife's  gentle  companionship.  The 
only  one  of  the  children  with  whom  he  had  ever 
established  intimacy  was  the  fourth  boy,  Gerard, 
in  whom  he  thought  he  detected  a  feeling  for 
ivory,  as  sensitive  as  his  own.  But  they  all  did 
their  best  to  be  kinder  than  usual  to  him  at  these 
periods,  which  caused  him  more  embarrassment 
than  consolation,  and  might  have  even  prompted 
him  to  stay  out  until  after  they  had  gone  to  bed 
but  for  his  lacking  entirely  the  resources  to  oc- 
cupy or  amuse  himself  in  any  way  outside  his 
office  and  his  home. 

§ii 

Muriel,  being  the  eldest  of  nine,  was  at  fifteen 
beyond  her  years  in  thought  and  capability.  To 
please  her  mother  she  would  cheerfully  have  seen 
her  father  chopped  up  small,  yet  she  felt  towards 
him,  as  a  rule,  a  half -tolerant,  half -contemptu- 
ous pity  which  almost  amounted  to  affection.  He 
was  proud  of  her  tallness,  her  straightness,  of  the 
firm  moulding  in  her  lips  and  the  ripple  in  her 
chestnut  hair.  But  he  did  not  know  what  to  say 
to  her  when  they  were  alone.  Indeed,  save 
at  such  times  as  these,  they  never  were  alone. 
When  his  wife  was  withdrawn  from  activity,  he 
was  compelled  to  accept  Muriel  as  her  substitute 


10      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

for  fear  of  having  Aunt  Sybilla  thrust  herself 
into  the  household. 

Aunt  SybiUa  was  his  sister.  She  had  brought 
him  up,  after  both  their  parents  had  died;  she 
was  chiefly  responsible  for  his  diffidence  and  help- 
lessness. A  sharp,  sarcastic  tongue  and  a  genius 
for  managing  had  won  for  her  general  dislike; 
it  is  scarcely  too  much  to  say  that  her  brother 
hated  as  well  as  feared  her.  Never  could  he  in 
childhood  set  about  a  task,  feeling  sure  of  him- 
self; the  thought  of  her  frosty  smile  and  ironical 
comment  made  his  hand  shake  and  paralysed  his 
perceptions.  Never  as  a  boy  could  he  learn  to  do 
anything  under  her  instruction :  in  her  impatience 
she  would  snatch  from  him  his  book  or  the  chisel 
he  was  using  or  the  pencil  with  which  he  was  try- 
ing to  draw,  and  with  swift,  magnificent  compe- 
tence translate  or  carve  or  sketch. 

She  was  so  self-assured,  so  ready  to  mock  at 
everybody,  so  defiantly  independent  of  any  man's 
support  that  she  had  not  married  until  she  was 
almost  in  her  fortieth  year.  Then  she  consented 
to  become  the  wife  of  an  old  friend  who  had  been 
elected  warden  of  an  Oxford  college.  It  was  the 
position  rather  than  the  man  that  appealed  to 
her,  but  she  did  not  long  enjoy  it.  Her  husband 
died  in  the  second  year  of  their  union,  which 
caused  her  intense  annoyance,  seeing  that  she  had 
found,  as  a  leader  of  scholastic  society,  all  the 
satisfaction  for  which  she  had  hoped.  However, 
she  took  a  house  close  to  her  brother's,  in  EUerslie, 
and  promised  herself  scope  for  her  talents  in 
helping  to  mould  and  polish  his  children. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       11 

This  benevolent  intention  was  frustrated  by 
the  firm  refusal  of  the  children  to  be  either  pol- 
ished or  moulded.  If  it  had  not  been  for  their 
mother's  entreaties,  they  would  have  dechned  to 
speak  to  their  aunt.  From  the  moment  of  set- 
ting eyes  on  her  they  recognised  that  she  was  an 
enemy  of  the  human  kind,  and  were  on  their 
guard  against  her.  They  were  proof  against 
her  sarcasm,  for  they  had  made  up  their  minds 
that  everything  she  said  was  bound  to  be  "rot." 
When  she  met  two  of  them  in  the  village  one  day, 
covered  with  mud  splashes  after  clinging  on  be- 
hind a  farmer's  slow-going  motor-lorry,  her  com- 
ment, delivered  with  the  slight  catch  of  the  breath 
which  usually  added  point  to  her  gibes,  fell  flat 
before  a  glare  of  defiance  from  the  culprits'  un- 
abashed eyes. 

Muriel  was  the  only  one  of  the  family  who  had 
ever  allowed  Aunt  Sybilla  any  degree  of  intim- 
acy, and  that  only  when  the  girl  began  to  feel  the 
need  of  enlightenment,  clearer  than  she  could 
get  at  home,  as  to  certain  aspects  of  life  that  set 
her  mind  at  work. 

"Why,"  she  asked,  one  day,  "don't  women 
have  to  go  to  work  like  men?'* 

"Because  they  have  been  cunning  enough  so 
far  to  make  men  work  for  them." 

"I'd  rather  work  for  my  own  living,"  Muriel 
said.  "I  think  it  would  be  much  more  fun  to  go 
out  every  morning  and  be  out  all  day." 

"That's  because  you  h-haven't  tried  it." 

"Have  you?"  inquired  Muriel  politely. 

"I  know  p-plenty  who  have," 


12      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"Of  course  all  women  couldn't.  Mims  couldn't. 
She's  got  to  look  after  us  and  keep  on  having 
babies.    But  I  shan't  do  that." 

"It's  the  proper  f-function  of  women.  That's 
what  they  are  made  for." 

"But  they  don't  all  do  it.  You  didn't,  did 
you?" 

"I  was  occupied  with  the  ungrateful  task  of 
bringing  up  your  father,"  Mrs.  Hunter  explained 
hastily. 

"Well,  at  any  rate,  I  shan't  be  like  Mims — I 
mean  in  that  way.  In  every  other  way  I  hope 
I  shall  be.  But  the  truth  is,  Aimt  Sybilla,  I 
don't  like  tiny  babies.  I've  seen  too  much  of 
them,  I  suppose." 

Muriel  had  a  conversation  on  the  same  theme 
with  Nurse.  This  was  soon  after  the  tenth  Over- 
sedge  infant  had  come  into  the  world. 

"Your  mother  doesn't  pick  up  as  well  as  I 
should  hke  to  see  her,"  Nurse  said,  looking  a 
little  worried. 

"Oh,  Nurse,  you  don't  mean  she's  ill." 

"Nothing  definite.  It's  weakness  more  than 
illness,  and  I  don't  wonder  at  it." 

"Why,  Nurse?" 

^There  are  nine  of  you,  aren't  there,  and  the 
new  baby  makes  ten,  and  how  many  died — ^two? 
Isn't  that  reason  enough?  But  there,  I  oughtn't 
to  say  such  things  to  a  child  like  you." 

"Doesn't  it  do  people  good  to  have  babies, 
Nurse?'* 

"Yes,  it  often  does.    If  they're  really  healthy 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       ISt 

and  strong,  it  ought  to  be  good  for  them.  But 
not  too  many." 

"Do  you  think  Miras  has  had  too  many. 
Nurse?" 

"My  dear,  I  don't  know.  I  sometimes  think 
the  whole  arrangement  is  a  bad  one,  but  then 
that's  only  because  we've  got  too  civihsed  and 
don't  keep  all  our  muscles  taut  and  whippy.  I've 
seen  so  many  tragedies.  I  do  wish  your  mother 
could  get  her  strength  up,  and  not  lie  back  there 
so  listless  and  exhausted  as  she  does." 

§  iii 

In  time  vigour  did  return,  and  interest  and 
energy,  though  not  the  same  energy  as  of  old. 
Still,  there  was  Mims  sitting  in  the  corner  of  the 
Chesterfield  again  before  the  drawing-room  fire 
and  busy  always  for  one  or  other  of  the  family 
and  listening  to  father's  tit-bits  from  the  evening 
newspaper.  Dear  Mims !  How  glad  everybody 
was  to  have  her  back!  Even  Aunt  Sybilla  re- 
frained from  sarcasm.  The  servants  tried  to 
spare  her  every  exertion.  The  children  rushed  to 
her  as  soon  as  they  came  into  the  house,  never 
went  off  to  school  or  play  without  kissing  her 
good-bye.  There  was  at  first  only  one  speck 
upon  the  apple  of  her  contentment  and  gratitude 
(dear  soul!  She  was  always  grateful,  not  osten- 
tatiously, as  some  are  who  parade  the  virtue,  but 
with  a  deep,  quiet  enjoyment  of  life) .  The  speck 
was  that  the  doctor  would  not  let  her  try  to  nurse 
the  new  baby.  She  knew  that  he  was  right,  but 
she  sighed  over  the  little  creature. 


14,      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"He  won't  have  the  same  chance  as  the  others," 
she  thought,  and  sighed  again,  half  with  relief, 
half  with  regret,  for  the  passing  of  her  fruitful- 
ness.  She  had  the  same  feeUng  as  might  come  to 
an  artist  warned  that  he  must  never  paint  or 
mould  clay  again.  Her  art  was  the  making  of 
children,  and  she  had  every  reason  to  be  proud 
of  the  array  of  her  "works."  Now  it  was  to  be 
taken  from  her;  strength  failed  for  the  task; 
she  could  not  even  now  complete  her  labours 
faithfully  and  with  fairness  to  the  result. 

"What  was  there  left?"  she  asked  herself  in 
moments  of  depression.  She  had  lived  far  more 
for  the  new  babies  than  for  the  children  growing 
up  about  her.  The  children  were  so  healthy  and 
there  were  enough  of  them  to  bring  each  other 
up:  they  were  like  young  animals  who  only 
needed  food  and  warmth,  and  for  the  rest  could 
look  after  themselves.  The  new  babies  had  to  be 
lived  for,  all  the  energy  of  life  had  to  be  concen- 
trated upon  them,  nothing  could  be  allowed  to 
interfere  with  that.  Some  women  fancied  they 
could  use  their  brains  and  produce  children  too. 
She  knew  better.  She  had  seen  how  poor  were 
their  productions,  white-faced,  with  nerves  a- jar, 
in  some  direction  or  other  abnormal.  Her  chil- 
dren had  had  poured  into  them  all  the  vital  force 
that  she  could  spare;  she  would  spend  it  on  no 
other  exertion. 
\~"  As  a  girl,  she  had  cherished  ambitions,  had 

\  promised   herself   travel   and   acquaintanceship 

with  foreign  tongues,  had  dreamed  of  devoting 
herself  to  music  and  becoming  famous  as  a  com- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       15 

poser,  and  knowing  all  the  people  who  added  to 
the  joy  and  beauty  of  their  age.  From  the  day, 
early  in  her  married  life,  when  she  first  knew 
that  motherhood  was  her  destiny,  she  had  made 
it  also  her  art,  her  one  absorbing  occupation. 
There  had  been  no  opportunity  to  travel  since  her 
honeymoon,  spent  among  the  Italian  Lakes,  with 
a  memorable  extension  at  her  entreaty  to  Flor- 
ence. Music  had  been  turned  to  the  purpose  of 
a  sedative,  a  banisher  of  melancholy  humours. 
She  had  made  few  friends,  had  let  her  mind  lie 
almost  fallow.  Nor,  until  now,  had  she  regretted 
all  this. 

But,  as  she  sat  in  her  corner  of  the  Chester- 
field and  reflected  over  all  that  she  had  given  up 
for  the  sake  of  her  art,  the  doubt  whispered  in 
her  mind  whether  she  had  been  wise  to  put  all 
her  eggs  into  one  basket.  From  now  on  she  had 
to  change  her  way  of  life.  She  must  busy  her- 
self not  with  the  unborn,  but  with  those  who  were 
growing  up.  Was  she  qualified  for  this  ?  So  long 
as  they  were  helpless,  their  needs  elemental,  their 
minds  undeveloped,  she  thought  she  might  say 
"Yes,"  though  hints  reached  her  of  new  modes 
in  the  bringing-up  even  of  infants.  But  as  com- 
panion, guide,  developer  of  children  who  had 
begun  to  reason  and  to  form  their  own  impres- 
sions, who  were  in  contact  with  ideas  strange  to 
her,  who  had  passed  on  from  the  standards  of  con- 
duct and  the  hmits  of  thought  accepted  by  her 
generation  into  a  region  where  she  felt  uneasy, 
out  of  place — ^there  she  was  ready  to  admit  her 
short-comings. 


16      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

Could  she  overcome  these  now?  Surely  it 
was  too  late  to  begin  an  attempt  to  catch  up  all 
that  she  had  let  go  by  without  attention  in  sixteen 
years.  True,  she  was  scarcely  past  her  thirty- 
seventh  birthday.  Women  at  thirty-seven,  she 
knew,  were  now  considered  young — were  young. 
But  she  had  no  illusions  about  the  road  her  own 
youth  had  taken.  She  had  poured  it  out  with 
generous,  unstinting  hand  into  the  works  of  her 
art.  In  time  she  might  recover  some  of  the  spring 
in  her  step,  some  of  the  activity  in  her  mind, 
which  had  been  drained  out  of  her.  But  by  that 
time  would  not  the  children  have  gone  out  into 
the  world?  At  all  events  they  would  have  passed 
out  of  the  orbit  of  her  influence.  Of  their  affec- 
tion she  felt  sure ;  nothing  could  alter  that.  But 
how  could  they  help  drifting  away  from  her  in 
thought  and  sympathies?  They  were  pushing 
ahead  with  their  generation;  she  felt  chained  to 
the  fashions,  spiritual  and  intellectual,  of  her  own. 

Something  of  this  doubtful  mood  intruded 
itself  into  a  talk  she  had  with  Muriel.  The  ques- 
tion arose  whether  the  girl  should  stay  on  at  the 
High  School  in  the  neighbouring  town  or  go  up 
to  London  to  certain  special  classes. 

"You  see,  Mims,"  she  explained,  "I  want  to 
begin  preparing  for  a  job — some  sort  of  work, 
you  know — don't  quite  know  what  yet — and  the 
High  School  doesn't  quite  help  enough." 

"Yes,  I  see,  my  darling,"  Mims  told  her. 

"I  knew  you  would,"  Muriel  said  enthusias- 
tically, kissing  her.  "You're  always  such  an  un- 
derstander.    Did  you  want  to  be  anything  when 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       It 

you  were  young?" 

"I  wanted  to  be  a  composer." 

*'What,  music?     Really?     How  thrillingl" 

*'It  seemed  so  then.  But  I  got  married  in- 
stead, you  see,  and  everything  turned  out  dif- 
ferent." 

"What  a  shame,  Mimsl" 

"No,  dear;  it  was  very  little  to  give  up  for — 
for  all  of  you,  and  yet  somehow  I  do  feel  that 
one  oughtn't  to  give  up  everything.  For  a  time 
one  must.  But,  if,  just  for  a  few  years  .  .  .  and 
then  to  take  up  life  again  where  we  left  off  ..." 
She  sighed  and  ended:  "My  hfe,  you  see,  has  been 
all  babies,  and  now  I'm  too  old  to  pick  up  any 
of  the  threads." 

Muriel  never  forgot  that  talk. 


CHAPTER  II 


A  YEAR  went  by,  two  years;  Muriel  was  seven- 
teen, and  the  latest  baby  had  begun  to  talk,  when 
a  cloud  spread  over  the  family  sky. 

In  spite  of  the  doctor's  warning,  in  spite  of 
her  own  admission  that  the  doctor  was  right, 
Mrs.  Oversedge  had  allowed  attachment  to  her 
art  to  overcome  prudence.  This,  she  was  deter- 
mined, should  be  the  last  time.  After  this  she 
would  resolutely  resign  herself  to  being  laid  on 
the  shelf.  But  she  had  found  it  too  hard  to 
achieve  resignation  all  at  once.  Life  seemed 
empty,  seemed  to  lack  meaning.  The  children 
did  not  need  her  a  great  deal.  Even  the  baby 
was  with  his  nurse  almost  always.  The  servants 
were  devoted  to  the  family;  the  simple  machinery 
of  the  household  ran  with  ordered  smoothness. 

So,  sitting  in  the  corner  of  the  Chesterfield, 
Mims  let  her  fancy  play  with  the  idea  of  "one 
more,"  and  soon  it  obsessed  her,  broke  down  all 
resistance. 

Husband  and  children  were  made  to  feel  it 

more  than  ever  they  had  felt  it  before.     With 

greater  awareness  of  effort  Mims  bent  all  her 

energy  to  the  task;  she  withdrew  into  herself; 

she  Bved  literally  for  another's  life.     A  mystic 

exaltation  took  possession  of  her.     Never  had 

18 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       19 

she  been  conscious  of  so  steady  and  so  weakening 
a  strain  on  her  vitality.  She  did  not  complain  of 
this,  rather  did  she  glory  in  the  sacrifice.  What 
else  was  there  for  her  to  do?  How  else  could 
she  justify  her  existence?  That  was  the  pretext 
she  employed  to  quiet  her  conscience,  which  told 
her  sometimes  that  she  owed  a  duty  to  her  hus- 
band which  she  was  not  discharging  so  faithfully 
as  she  might ;  that  she  ought  also  to  find  occupa- 
tion in  bringing  up  at  all  events  the  younger  of 
the  children. 

Poor  Oversedge  suffered  from  a  vague  fore- 
boding as  well  as  from  the  actual  discomfort  of 
not  seeing  his  wife  at  the  breakfast-table,  and  of 
being  left  to  pass  the  evenings  by  himself  after 
she  had  gone  early  to  bed.  He  had  been  rejoiced 
to  think  that  what  he  called  "the  child  business" 
was  over ;  that  henceforward  he  would  always  be 
able  to  count  upon  reading  scraps  out  from  the 
evening  newspaper,  and  taking  his  wife  for  a 
walk  on  Sunday  afternoon,  and  having  the  sup- 
port of  her  familiar  presence  among  all  the 
strange,  and,  as  he  often  thought,  hostile  young 
faces  that  he  saw  around  him  at  breakfast.  Now 
he  was  thrown  back  into  the  conditions  he  knew 
so  well  and  detested  so  resentfully,  and  over 
and  above  these  he  was  plagued  by  a  fear  that 
something  worse  might  be  at  hand. 

Nurse  arriving  noticed  his  depression  and  tried 
to  cheer  him  up.  But  she  looked  grave  herself 
after  she  had  been  with  her  patient  a  few  hours, 
and  had  talked  with  the  doctor :  a  new  doctor,  a 
woman,  who  had  been  called  in  when  the  "old 


20      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

stuff er"  retired.  The  children  caught  the  uneasi- 
ness which  was  in  the  air.  Mims  herself  was  the 
only  person  in  the  house  who  remained  serene 
and  content.  She  was  in  that  blessed  state  until 
the  first  of  her  heart  attacks. 

Nurse  had  been  summoned  much  earlier  than 
usual  because  the  doctor  feared  these.  Her  fear 
was  proved  to  be  well  founded. 

"This  was  the  trouble  I  anticipated,"  she  told 
Mr.  Oversedge,  summoned  from  the  city,  listen- 
ing with  a  pinched  look  and  blinking  eyes  to  the 
account  of  the  alarming  seizure.  "No  woman 
ought  to  undergo  such  a  strain.  I  warned  you, 
Mr.  Oversedge.  Why  didn't  you  take  heed? 
Why  didn't  you  act  upon  it?" 

A  man  would  have  perceived  that  the  unfor- 
tunate Oversedge  was  scarcely  to  blame.  The 
doctor  could  not  imagine  that  any  other  woman 
would  be  inclined  to  endure  willingly  experiences 
and  suffering  from  which  her  own  spirit  shrank. 
She  put  the  blame  unjustly  upon  the  man,  be- 
lieving that  in  such  cases  the  husband  was  always 
responsible  in  a  far  greater  degree  than  the  wife. 
Nurse  knew  better,  but  she,  too,  judged  Over- 
sedge harshly. 

"He  ought  to  have  prevented  this,"  she  told 
herself,  with  bitterness  in  her  heart  against  him, 
as  she  watched  the  patient  struggHng  back  to 
life  and  consciousness  after  a  severe  heart  failure. 

"The  man's  a  fool,  and  he's  likely  to  lose  her 
in  consequence.  It's  her  doing,  I  know,  but  he 
ought  to  have  prevented  it.  It'll  be  his  fault  if 
she  dies." 


ffHE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TBEE      21 

§ii 

Weak  and  white,  and  for  the  first  time  shaken 
in  her  convictions  that  all  would  go  well,  Mims 
lay  inert  and  talked  with  Muriel  one  sunny  spring 
afternoon. 

"The  almond  blossom's  out,  Mims,  and  the 
crocuses  are  just  lovely,  and  the  blackbirds  are 
whistling  that  tune  that  sends  a  thrill  all  through 
you.    There,  can  you  hear?" 

The  woman  in  the  bed  nodded. 

"Everything  new,  everything  being  born,"  she 
said  faintly.  "Why  is  it  so  easy  in  Nature,  and 
so  hard  for  us?" 

"You  don't  feel  bad,  Mims,  do  you?"  her 
daughter  inquired  anxiously. 

"Not  so  bad  now,  my  darling.  I'm  better, 
much  better  than  I  was.  But  it'll  go  hard  with 
me  this  time.  I  know  that.  I  don't  think  I've 
got  much  strength  left." 

A  week  later  her  heart  failed  again,  and  be- 
fore Nurse  could  telephone  for  the  doctor  to 
come,  it  had  stopped  for  ever.  This  was  in  the 
morning  while  the  children  were  at  school.  Com- 
ing home  at  midday  they  were  terrified  by  the 
blank  look  of  the  house  with  every  window  cur- 
tained. Muriel  met  them.  They  knew  from 
her  red  eyes  what  had  happened.  Some  of  them 
were  stunned  into  tearless  silence,  changed  their 
boots  for  soft  shoes,  put  away  their  books  in  the 
schoolroom,  sat  down  at  the  table,  laid  as  usual, 
with  creeping  quietude  and  puzzled  brows. 
Others  cried  bitterly  and  loudly.    Muriel  did  her 


22      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

best  to  comfort  them,  but  she  felt  the  need  of 
comfort  herself.  Her  father  had  not  come  home 
yet;  not  from  him,  however,  could  she  look  for 
support  or  consolation. 

Nurse  was  her  only  stand-by,  yet  Nurse  could 
not  feel,  as  she  did,  and  as  the  other  children  and 
her  father  must,  the  loneliness  that  seemed  now 
to  stretch  out  before  them  to  the  ends  of  their 
lives.  The  full  poignancy  of  parting  afflicts  only 
those  whose  daily  Hves  are  broken  up  by  death. 
The  disturbance  of  habit,  the  hourly  reminder  of 
a  painful  change,  the  looking  ahead  to  days  and 
weeks  and  years  empty  of  a  dear  presence — these 
are  what  lacerate  the  heart ;  and  the  only  thought 
capable  of  bringing  relief — ^the  thought  that 
Time  will  heal  the  wound — is  repelled  with  in- 
dignation as  a  treason  to  the  memory  of  the  dead. 

It  was  terror  of  the  stabs  which  awaited  him  in 
the  familiar  surroundings  of  his  home  that  ac- 
counted for  the  failure  of  Mr.  Oversedge  to  ap- 
pear. He  was  expected  all  the  afternoon.  In  the 
evening  his  absence  caused  alarm.  He  had  left 
his  office,  it  was  known,  just  after  twelve.  From 
that  time  he  had  disappeared.  There  were,  as 
Aunt  Sybilla  said  tartly,  all  sorts  of  arrange- 
ments to  be  made,  and  it  was  incomprehensible 
that  he  should  not  have  come  home  at  once. 

"I  think  perhaps,  Aunt,"  ventured  Muriel, 
"that  he's  afraid  to  come." 

"Afraid?  Whatever  do  you  mean?  What 
could  he  be  afraid  of?" 

Muriel  thought  for  a  few  moments  before  she 
explained.    Was  it  any  use,  she  wondered,  try- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       23 

ing  to  explain  to  this  unimaginative,  self-satisfied 
relation?  If  people  didn't  see  certain  things  for 
themselves,  it  was  useless  pointing  them  out. 
With  youth's  wholesome  intolerance  of  compla- 
cency and  pretentiousness  she  had  long  ago  writ- 
ten her  aunt  down  an  ass.  However,  she  must 
try  to  make  her  meaning  plain. 

"Why,  afraid  of  everything  that  would  re- 
mind him  of  dear  Mims.  I  don't  think  I  could 
have  borne  to  come  back  if  I  had  been  away  from 
the  house.     I  know  father's  like  that." 

"I've  known  him  a  g-good  deal  longer  than 
you,  and  I  never  knew  him  to  behave  disgrace- 
fully, or  even  harbour  the  wish  to,"  retorted 
Aunt  SybiUa. 

"It  wouldn't  be  disgraceful,  it  would  be  nat- 
ural," Muriel  protested. 

"Such  cowardice  as  you  suggest  would  be  a 
disgrace  to  any  man ;  utterly  unnatural,  I  should 
consider  it.  You  don't  mean  seriously  to  tell 
me 

Here  a  servant  brought  in  a  letter  which  had 
been  delivered  at  Mrs.  Hunter's  house  and  sent 
across  after  her.  It  was  from  her  brother;  it 
had  been  posted  in  the  city  shortly  after  mid- 
day. 

"I  cannot  come  home,"  it  said.  "It  would 
be  more  than  I  could  endure.  Please  do  every- 
thing necessary.  I  enclose  a  number  of  blank 
cheques  signed.  Please  fill  in  amounts  as  you 
require  them.  Whether  I  shall  ever  see  the  chil- 
dren again  I  don't  know.  They  will  not  miss 
me,  except  Gerard,  I  think,  perhaps.     I  am 


24.      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

apprehensive  of  my  mind  giving  way.  I  cannot 
write  more.  Put  on  her  gravestone  that  she  was 
the  best  and  kindest  wife  any  man  ever  had." 

!A.imt  Sybilla  read  it  twice,  then  she  handed 
it  to  Muriel. 

"Well,  you  were  right,"  she  said;  "we  live  and 
learn.  I  couldn't  have  believed  it  possible.  It's 
a  bad  business  to  be  ashamed  of  one's  own 
brother,  but  I  am." 

"You  don't  understand,"  Muriel  told  her,  with 
indignation.  "It  isn't  that  he  doesn't  want  to 
come,  but  he  can't.  It's  the — the  going  on  liv- 
ing as  if  nothing  had  happened  that  he  can't 
face — ^the  meals,  and  the  getting  up  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  the  house  going  on  as  usual.  And  then 
the  parading  of  grief  at  the  funeral,  the  pub- 
licity and  all — ^that  civilised  people  are  coming 
to  hate." 

Muriel  had  read  an  essay  somewhere  on  this 
theme;  her  memory  of  it  helped  her  to  put  her- 
self imaginatively  in  her  father's  place. 

"I  didn't  know  my  brother  was  so  civilised 
as  that,"  said  Aunt  Sybilla  sarcastically. 

"You  never  did  know  much  about  him,  I 
should  say,"  retorted  Muriel. 

For  once  Mrs.  Hunter  had  no  rejoinder  ready. 
She  took  back  the  note,  folded  it  and  put  it  in 
its  envelope. 

"WeU,  it's  a  good  thing  there's  someone  in 
the  family  who  can  take  charge,"  she  commented, 
"and  it  looks  to  me  as  if  I  should  have  all  of 
you  on  my  hands.    A  nice  handful  to  look  after. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       25 

but  if  it's  placed  on  me  as  a  duty,  I  shall  do  my 
best." 

"You  won't  have  me,  at  any  rate,"  Muriel 
was  saying  to  herself,  and  already  making  plans 
to  enter  a  profession  and  earn  her  own  living, 
and  perhaps  become  famous. 

"Poor  Mims,"  she  reflected  mournfully,  "had 
just  the  same  idea  when  she  was  young.  She 
let  herself  be  side-tracked.  If  she'd  gone  on 
with  her  music,  she'd  very  likely  have  made 
her  name  as  a  composer,  and  had  a  long  Hfe  full 
of  interests  and  variety  and  fun  generally.  I'm 
not  going  to  let  that  happen  to  me." 

§  iii 

It  was  really  an  advantage  to  the  Oversedge 
children,  especially  to  Muriel  and  the  next  in 
age,  Douglas,  summoned  home  from  a  PubUc 
School,  to  suffer  under  the  managing  ability  of 
their  aunt.  Mrs.  Hunter  acted  as  a  counter- 
irritant  to  their  grief.  Although  at  the  time  her 
bustling  acidulated  presence  in  the  house  seemed 
to  make  their  sense  of  loss  more  painful  when 
they  contrasted  her  with  their  placid,  persua- 
sive and  always  lovable  Mims,  yet  the  astringent 
effect  of  her  took  their  minds  off  their  grief. 

The  younger  ones  were  saved  by  her  from 
slipping  into  indiscipline,  which  they  would  have 
done  quickly,  seeing  that  they  were  accustomed 
only  to  obey  orders  and  to  accept  external  direc- 
tion; no  attempt  had  been  made  either  at  home 
or  at  school  to  expand  their  reasoning  power  to 
the  point  at  which  they  would  see  the  necessity 


26      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

for  order  and  enforce  it  upon  themselves.  It 
seemed  to  them  at  first  that  it  would  be  indecent 
and  heartless  to  continue  their  daily  routine,  to 
read  books,  to  play  games,  even  to  go  out  for 
walks.  Aunt  Sybilla's  hard  common-sense 
dispelled  that  illogical,  foolishly  sentimental 
thought. 

"The  best  way  you  can  show  you  loved  your 
m-mother  and  that  you're  sorry  she's  been  taken 
from  you,  is  by  behaving  just  as  she'd  wish  you 
to  behave  if  she  were  here.  She  wouldn't  like 
to  see  you  moping  and  doing  nothing  and  get- 
ting no  fresh  air.  Run  out  now  for  a  good  walk 
and  then  get  your  school  books  and  do  some 
lessons.  Muriel  wiU  show  you  what  to  do,  if 
you  don't  know." 

This  was  wholesome  and  bracing.  The  ma- 
chinery of  the  household  was  kept  running. 
There  existed  an  authority  before  which  diffi- 
culties might  be  laid,  a  tribunal  from  which  im- 
mediate decisions  could  be  obtained. 

The  civiHsation  founded  by  the  Romans, 
which  in  its  essentials  remains  the  civilisation  of 
Europe  and  America  to-day,  implants  this  idea 
of  rulership  very  firmly  in  the  mind.  Few  peo- 
ple can  think  of  any  human  unit,  family,  work- 
shop, office,  city  or  nation — as  capable  of 
carrying  on  its  activities  and  developing  along 
useful,  harmonious  lines  without  direction,  with- 
out government.  The  Slav  idea  that  any  check- 
ing of  individual  impulse,  any  imposition  of 
authority  from  outside  the  individual,  any  in- 
terference with  the  free  working  of  personality. 


:\ 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE      27 

must  be  harmful,  is  not  even  imderstood  among 
Western  peoples.  The  suggestion  that  here  may 
lie  the  path  of  a  fresh  civihsation,  destined  to 
supersede  ours,  sounds  to  most  ears  meaning-  /^ 

less,  absurd. 

Had  the  Oversedge  family  been  Slav,  they 
would  presumably  have  managed  to  get  their 
mother  buried;  but  there  would  certainly  not 
have  been  the  same  perfect  organisation  of  every 
detail  connected  with  this  grisly  performance 
as  was  evolved  under  the  capable  guiding  hand 
of  Aunt  Sybilla. 

"Everything  went  off  extremely  well,"  she 
wrote  to  the  undertaker,  sending  him  one  of  her 
brother's  cheques,  and  she  felt  a  justifiable  glow 
of  pride  as  she  wrote  it. 

The  only  defect  in  the  arrangement  of  the 
ceremony  was  the  absence  of  Mr.  Oversedge. 
Nothing  had  been  heard  from  him.  "He  did 
not,"  his  sister  remarked  severely,  "even  trouble 
to  send  a  wreath,"  which  remark  betrayed  so 
exquisite  an  inability  to  comprehend  the  mental 
state  of  a  man  beside  himself  with  sorrow  and 
remorse,  that  Muriel,  angry  as  it  made  her,  could 
not  help  laughing. 

Nor  did  any  tidings  of  their  father  reach  th^ 
family  until  a  fortnight  after  the  funeral.  Then 
there  came  a  letter  from  a  steamship  company 
inquiring  whether  a  passenger  who  took  a  berth 
in  the  name  of  Oversedge  on  a  coasting  vessel 
from  London  to  Cadiz,  and  who  disappeared 
during  the  voyage  while  the  ship  was  off  the 
coast  of  Portugal,  was  the  same  Mr.  M.  R. 


28      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

Oversedge  whose  name  appeared  in  the  County 
Directory  as  a  resident  of  Ellerslie. 

The  children,  stupefied  by  the  news,  had  no 
tears  to  shed  over  the  loss  of  their  second  parent. 
They  scarcely  realised  it.  He  had  meant  so 
little  to  them. 

"Poor  old  chap !"  Douglas  said,  discussing  the 
matter  with  Miu*ieL  "Why  do  you  think  he 
did  it?" 

"I  don't  *think,' "  replied  Muriel,  "I  know. 
He  simply  couldn't  face  it.  He  wasn't  like 
most  other  men.  He  didn't  belong  to  clubs  or 
play  golf.  He  never  went  anywhere  without 
Mims.  It  was  the  pain  he  would  have  felt  when 
he  came  back  and  found  everything  reminding 
him  of  her,  that  made  him  go  away  on  the  boat, 
and  then,  I  suppose,  he  thought  if  he  couldn't 
come  home  it  wasn't  any  good  going  on." 

"I  believe,"  suggested  Douglas,  "that  he  felt 
it  was  his  fault.  Has  Nurse  told  you  the  doctor 
told  him  he  ought  to  have  stopped  it?" 

"Yes;  but  I  don't  believe  it  was  so  much  that 
as  the  other,"  Muriel  persisted.  She  could  un- 
derstand so  vividly  what  her  father's  feeling  had 
been,  and  this  made  her  think  of  him  more  kindly 
than  ever  she  had  thought  before. 

"Rotten  world!"  reflected  Douglas  gloomily, 
"What  about  us  now?" 

"I  suppose  there'll  be  some  money  for  us," 
said  Miu'iel  anxiously.  "Father  must  have  had 
a  pretty  good  business.  Do  you  think  there'U 
be  enough  to  divide  up?" 

"Hope  so,"  Douglas  answered,  without  much 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       29 

confidence.    "Why?    Do  you  want  your  share?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  Muriel  assented  with  emphasis. 
"I'm  not  going  to  stay  here  with  old  Sybilla. 
D'you  know  what  I  want  to  do,  Duggy?  To 
be  called  to  the  Bar." 

"Can  you  be?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  I've  found  all  that  out. 
That  was  why  I  wanted  to  go  to  those  classes 
in  London.  I  say,  why  shouldn't  you  be  a  bar- 
rister too?    We  could  'eat  our  dinners'  together." 

"Eat  our  dinners?"  queried  Douglas.  "I  sup- 
pose we  could  'dig'  together  and  have  most  of 
our  meals  together." 

"I  didn't  mean  that,"  Muriel  explained;  "of 
course  we  could  do  that.  But  eating  dinners  is 
part  of  what  you  have  to  do  to  get  called  to  the 
Bar.  You  join  an  Inn  of  Court  and  you  have 
to  dine  so  many  times  a  term  in  the  Hall  of  the 
Inn.    Rather  fun,  I  should  think." 

"Depends  on  the  dinner,"  Douglas  said,  with 
a  man-of-the-world  air,  and  then  went  on: 
"But  all  that's  no  use  to  me.  I  want  to  be  a 
mining  engineer.  I  shouldn't  mind  leaving 
school  now,  if  I  could  start  in  with  some  sort  of 
training  for  that." 

"You're  only  sixteen,  aren't  you,  Duggy?" 

"Jolly  nearly  seventeen.  But,  of  course,  it 
all  hangs  on  whether  there's  any  money  for  us 
or  not!" 

When  the  affairs  of  Mr.  Oversedge  had  been 
investigated  by  his  lawyer,  his  heavy  insurances 
paid,  and  all  his  property  realised,  it  was  an- 
nounced to  the  family  that  there  would  be  at 


30      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

their  disposal  an  income  of  not  quite  one  thou- 
sand pounds  a  year.  The  lawyer,  one  of  Over- 
sedge's  few  friends,  had  been  named  as  trustee, 
so  a  council  was  held  at  his  office  to  decide  on 
the  apportionment.  Mrs.  Hunter,  who  had  al- 
ready moved  into  the  Oversedge  house  and  been 
forced  to  acquiesce  in  the  approaching  depar- 
ture of  Muriel  for  London,  attended  with  the 
girl  and  with  Douglas,  now  home  for  summer 
holidays. 

After  much  conversation  it  was  decided  that 
MurieFs  preliminary  fee  should  be  paid  and  that 
she  and  Douglas  should  have  one  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  a  year  each  to  pursue  their  studies. 
The  remainder  of  the  income  would  be  paid  to 
Aunt  SybiUa,  who  would  bring  up  the  other 
eight  children,  ranging  from  two  to  fourteen. 

"A  himdred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year  doesn't 
go  very  far  nowadays,"  the  kindly  solicitor  said, 
"but  if  you  are  going  to  live  together,  that  will 
help.  I  hope  you'll  manage  comfortably,  and 
I  wish  you  luck,  my  dear  Muriel;  I  shaU  look 
forward  to  giving  you  your  first  brief." 

As  they  walked  home  in  the  yellow  August 
afternoon,  sky  and  trees  steeped  in  a  flow  of 
gold,  Muriel  tro4  on  air. 


CHAPTER  III 


Muriel's  first  idea  of  a  profession  had  been  dis- 
pensing; but  that  was  not  her  own  idea.  It  was 
put  into  her  mind  by  a  High  School  mistress. 

Muriel's  mind  was  analytical.  She  enjoyed 
the  process  which  she  called  "thinking  things 
out";  it  amused  her  to  spHt  up  either  a  char- 
acter or  a  common  opinion  into  its  component 
parts.  For  a  while,  therefore,  the  notion  of  mak- 
ing up  medicines,  putting  drugs  together  into 
compounds  intended  to  produce  certain  effects, 
was  agreeable  to  her.  But  it  was  driven  out 
swiftly  and  for  ever  by  the  ambition  she  con- 
ceived after  reading  the  full  report  of  a  trial 
for  murder,  which  had  stirred  the  whole  country 
with  its  dramatic  reactions  and  episodes.  In 
her  imagination  it  had  conjured  up  the  picture 
of  herself  defending  a  prisoner  in  danger  of 
death,  and  knowing  that  the  first  thing  every 
newspaper  reader  would  want  to  see  next 
morning  was  how  she  had  handled  a  hostile 
witness  or  put  her  case  to  the  jury  or  wrestled 
with  the  judge  for  the  admission  of  some  doubt- 
ful testimony. 

She  read  in  cheap  editions  the  lives  of  Russell, 
Hawkins,  Lockwood,  pleaders  famous  in  their 
day,  and  figured  to  herself  the  concentrated 

31 


32      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

energy  she  would  throw  into  her  study  of  a 
brief  or  the  intuitive  subtlety  with  which  she 
would  divine  motives.  She  had  seen  in  the  illus- 
trated papers  photographs  of  French  women 
barristers,  had  admired  the  attractive  set  of  their 
biretta  caps  upon  their  carefully  dressed  hair, 
had  studied  herself  in  the  glass  to  see  how  she 
would  look  in  one  of  them.  Indeed,  she  went 
further;  she  fashioned  out  of  an  old  toque  of  her 
mother's  a  colourable  imitation  of  the  French 
legal  head-covering,  and  was  not  displeased  with 
her  appearance  in  it. 

To  the  bursar  of  the  college  at  which  she  at- 
tended classes  in  London  she  had  opened  her 
desire.  He  was  a  kindly  man,  and  took  some 
trouble  to  help  this  eager,  enthusiastic  young 
creature  who  flattered  him  by  asking  his  help. 
First,  he  satisfied  himself,  by  inquiring  of  her 
class  master,  that  she  was  capable,  if  she  chose  to 
work  hard,  of  passing  the  Bar  examination. 
Next  he  procured  for  her  information  about  the 
Inns  of  Court  and  the  steps  necessary  towards 
enrolling  oneself  as  a  student  of  the  law. 

When  she  heard  that  nearly  two  hundred 
pounds  had  to  be  paid  on  enrolment  by  those 
who  had  taken  no  university  degree,  the  bursar 
expected  to  see  her  dismayed.  She  was  un- 
moved, however;  she  supposed  her  father  had 
plenty  of  money;  there  always  seemed  to  be 
enough  at  home;  he  could  not  refuse  to  give  her 
a  start  in  life.  It  was  only  after  her  father's 
death,  when  the  whole  future  of  their  family 
existence  had  fallen  in  ruins,  and  when  the  fu- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       33 

ture  seemed  suddenly  doubtful,  that  she  began 
to  wonder  whether  two  hundred  pounds  was 
not  a  great  deal  of  money  and  was  there  any 
chance  of  her  being  allowed  to  gpend  it  as  she 
wished. 

The  meeting  af^- /^ii^.  \«jv^.i' s  this  gave  her 
relief  from  an  an^jfiety  which  had  be^n  to  press 
upon  her  spirits.  She  felt  ashamed  that  she 
should  be  so  happy  jafter  Mi/n's  death  and  then 
her  father's  such  a  SiJort  whiZe  .,9go.  Yet,  she 
argued,  with  her  knack  of  pursuing  emotions  to 
their  source,  it  was  much  better  that  she  should 
be  happy  and  looking  forward  to  an  interesting 
life,  than  moping  and  only  half  alive.  Her 
mother,  if  she  had  any  choice  in  the  matter, 
would  not  want  her  to  be  mournful.  Mims  must 
know,  if  she  knew  anything,  that  her  daughter 
missed  her  and  would  readily  give  up  her  pos- 
sessions, her  prospects,  hfe  itself  (as  she  be- 
lieved) to  win  the  dear  face  back.  Therefore  the 
impulse  to  hug  grief  must  be  born  of  conven- 
tionality, of  deference  to  the  censorious  eyes 
of  neighbours,  of  insincerity,  in  short. 

That  matter  settled,  Muriel  felt  free  io  be 
joyful  without  restraint.  Few  girls,  she  thought, 
could  look  forward  more  gladly  or  with  better 
hope  of  an  eventful  and  successful  career.  She 
and  Douglas  would  have  a  jolly  little  home  in 
London;  she  could  see  it  already.  Not  much 
furniture,  but  what  there  was  of  it  attractive 
as  well  as  serviceable.  She  had  treasured  in 
her  memory  William  Morris's  "Have  in  your 
house  nothing  which  you  do  not  either  know  to 


34      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

be  useful  or  consider  beautiful."  She  told  her- 
self that  perhaps  "beautiful"  was  going  a  bit 
too  far,  but  she  wouldn't  have  anything  that  she 
didn't  think  jolly  or  amusing.  At  any  rate 
Morris's  reproach  against  the  houses  of  the  rich 
— that  they  Vvjuild  be  JTipvtrrcpd  if  three-quarters 
of  the  things  Hib.thelm  were  tuken  outside  and 
burnt — should  not  apply  to  hers. 

It  wouldn^  be^a  house  at  first,  only  a  tiny  flat, 
or  perhaps  rw?^iis,  but  she  would  enforce  the 
Morris  rule  in  it,  whatever  it  was.  She  could 
see  a  quiet  evening  room,  curtains  drawn,  shaded 
lamps  throwing  light  down  on  the  books  which 
she  and  Duggy  had  open  before  them.  Not 
novels,  oh  dear,  no.  Each  would  be  at  work; 
she  at  her  law,  Duggy  at  his  engineering.  She 
pictured,  too,  a  summer  afternoon,  windows 
open,  sun  flooding  the  room  with  light,  tea  on  a 
side  table,  guests  talking  and  laughing,  herself 
moving  from  one  group  to  another,  perhaps  a 
song,  or  a  poet  reading  his  verse.  She  had  not 
made  many  friends  at  EUerslie;  members  of 
large  families  seldom  do.  But  she  felt  that  she 
had  a  capacity  for  friendship;  now  she  might 
be  able  to  exercise  it. 

Aunt  Sybilla's  proposal  that  she  and  Douglas 
should  live  in  a  boarding-house  she  swept  aside. 
Douglas  was  indifferent,  though  he  inclined  a 
little  towards  his  aunt's  view  that  he  would  be 
better  fed. 

"How  are  you  going  to  provide  the  boy  with 
regular,  n-nourishing  meals  if  you  are  at  work 
all  day?"  she  asked  Muriel  scornfully. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       35 

"I  shan't  starve  him.  I  don't  intend  to  starve 
myself." 

"Girls  can  live  on  anything.  Tea  and  sand- 
wiches, bread  and  butter  and  bloater  paste. 
They  don't  think  it  worth  while  to  trouble  about 
proper  meals." 

"I  do,"  retorted  Muriel  incisively.  "No 
scratch  feeding  for  me.  Duggy  needn't  be 
afraid  on  that  score." 

§  ii 

The  late  summer  and  early  autumn  seemed 
to  Muriel,  when  she  thought  of  them  just  after 
the  decision  in  her  favour  at  the  lawyer's  office, 
to  stretch  out  endlessly,  to  interpose  a  barrier  of 
tedious  waiting  between  her  and  the  beginning 
of  term  at  the  Inn  which  was  to  receive  her  as 
a  law  student.  She  found,  however,  that  the 
weeks  raced  by.  There  was  so  much  to  arrange, 
so  many  visits  to  be  paid  to  London  in  search 
of  rooms,  that  the  October  day  on  which  she 
and  Douglas  began  their  new  life  arrived  almost 
before  she  was  ready  for  it. 

There  was  no  tearful  leave-taking;  brother 
and  sister  were  to  have  their  bedrooms  kept  for 
them  and  to  go  down  for  week-ends  as  often  as 
they  liked.  Just  at  the  very  last,  though,  the 
memory  of  Mims  overcame  the  pair  of  them, 
and  as  they  drove  away  to  the  station  there  were 
tears  in  their  eyes.  Each  knew  the  other's  sor- 
rowful thought.  They  clasped  hands  in  silence 
and  sat  so  during  the  short  drive.  Then  the 
excitement  of  starting  off  "on  their  own"  drove 


36      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

(everything  else  out  of  their  heads,  and  for  the 
next  week  or  two  they  had  little  time  for  any- 
thing but  "setthng  down." 

They  had  been  lucky  enough  to  find  three 
rooms  not  entirely  furnished  in  an  old  house  on 
the  border  between  Kensington  and  Hammer- 
smith. In  front  there  was  a  green,  at  the  back 
the  garden  of  a  convent,  so  the  house  had  plenty 
of  light  and  air.  Some  of  the  furniture  at  home 
that  had  been  displaced  by  Aunt  Sybilla's  when 
she  moved  in  was  sent  up  for  them.  The  land- 
lady agreed  to  have  the  faded  wall-papers 
stripped  and  distemper  applied.  Muriel  felt 
she  had  made  a  good  beginning.  Also  the  land- 
lady fell  in  cheerfully  with  Muriel's  housekeep- 
ing scheme.  Applying  her  analytical  process 
to  the  domestic  idea,  she  had  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  there  need  be  no  difficulty  in  man- 
aging a  household  if  one  set  about  it  in  a  ra- 
tional, orderly  way. 

She  drew  up  a  seven-day  plan  of  meals,  there- 
fore (breakfasts  and  dinners  only;  they  would 
both  lunch  out),  submitted  it  to  Douglas  for  his 
approval,  and  then  gave  it  to  the  landlady,  who 
undertook  to  do  the  shopping  and  to  give  an 
account  of  her  stewardship  every  week. 

Aunt  Sybilla  scoffed  at  this  arrangement. 

"Of  course  she'll  r-rob  you,  buy  cheap  meat 
and  charge  you  for  the  best,  palm  off  inferior 
stuff  of  every  kind  on  you." 

"I'll  wait  till  she  does,"  said  Muriel  firmly. 
"I  don't  believe  she  will.  You've  got  old- 
fashioned  ideas,  you  know.     You  regard  land- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       37 

ladies  as  if  they  were  a  special  creation,  bom 
dishonest.  It's  like  the  way  you  think  about 
servants,  as  if  they  were  made  of  different  flesh 
and  blood  from  liie  people  they  wait  on.  AU 
that  is  rot." 

"Thank  you,"  returned  Aimt  Sybilla,  with  a 
grim  chuckle;  "I  am  always  glad  to  receive  in- 
struction, and  to  be  t-told  where  I  am  wrong." 
"Well,  it  is  much  better  for  you  to  be  told, 
isn't  it?"  Muriel  asked  her.  "That's  why  old 
people  are  mostly  so  behind  the  times,  and  stuffy 
in  thfir  minds,  simply  because  they  haven't  a 
notion  what  the  young  are  thinking  and  how  far 
the  world  has  got  past  the  ideas  they  were 
brought  up  in.  There's  no  reason  why  old  people 
shouldn't  be  sensible  and  up-to-date  if  only  they 
had  someone  to  tell  them  that  things  were  mov- 
ing, and  that  they  mustn't  expect  them  to  stay 
just  where  they  were  in  their  young  days." 

"How  f-fortunate  I  ought  to  consider  myself," 
said  Aunt  Sybilla,  "to  have  so  wise  a  niece,  and 
one  who  is  ready  to  let  me  benefit  by  her  wisdom." 
"Well,  we'll  see  who's  right,"  Muriel  an- 
swered. "I'm  not  going  to  begin  by  suspecting 
anybody.  I  dare  say,  if  I  did  show  that  I  thought 
Mrs.  Syrom  meant  to  cheat  us,  she  would,  and 
I  shouldn't  blame  her.  Just  the  same,  I'm  not 
going  to  lock  anything  up.  I  hate  all  that  secre- 
tive business.  It's  not  worth  while.  I'm  sure 
the  fussers  who  do  it  get  robbed  a  lot  more  than 
those  who  don't.  I  believe  if  you  show  you  trust 
people  they'll  generally  behave  decently." 

"You'll    buy    your    exp-perience,"    retorted 


38      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

Aunt  Sybilla,  "and  I  expect  you'll  buy  it  'dear. 
Cocksure  young  women  usually  do." 

What  Aunt  Sybilla  did  not  allow  for  was  the 
honest  attempt  which  this  cocksure  young 
woman  and  many  others  like  her — indeed  mod- 
ern young  women  in  general — ^were  making  to 
get  at  the  truth.  They  did  try  dispassionately 
to  see  human  nature  as  it  is,  they  refused  to 
accept  any  estimate  of  it  formed  by  others,  they 
challenged  the  catchwords,  and  comfortable  de- 
lusions by  which  their  elders  were  satisfied. 
They  might  not  have  hit  upon  the  whole  truth, 
but,  at  all  events,  they  had  a  right  to  offer  opin- 
ions based  upon  genuine  effort  of  mind;  their 
intolerance  was  more  excusable  than  that  of  per- 
sons like  Aunt  Sybilla,  who  had  never  tried  to 
reason  frankly  about  anything,  and  supposed 
they  had  a  right  to  force  their  antiquated  preju- 
dices upon  the  young. 

Douglas  was  far  more  sympathetic  than  his 
sister  to  Aunt  Sybilla's  assumptions  and  beliefs. 
He  was  the  product  of  education  at  the  more 
expensive  kind  of  PubHc  School — ^that  is  to  say, 
he  had  never  been  encouraged  to  think  about 
anything,  except  how  to  make  a  ball  "break'* 
when  he  was  bowling,  and  other  problems  of  that 
order.  His  reflections  upon  engineering  theories 
had  not  stirred  his  mind  to  any  general  activity. 
He  had  that  simple  faith  which,  according  to 
Tennyson,  was  "more  than  Norman  blood"  and 
in  these  days  is  far  more  useful  as  an  aid  to 
"getting  on":  the  faith,  namely,  that  there  is  a 
certain  small  number  of  people  born  with  a 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       39 

right  to  the  best  of  everything;  but  with  the  duty 
also  of  working  hard  for  it,  and  for  the  ad- 
vancement of  civilisation  by  which  all  benefit,  the 
mass  of  people  just  to  this  extent,  that  their  slen- 
der participation  in  its  blessings  keeps  them 
quiet  and  respectful,  and  prevents  them,  by 
means  of  the  fear  that  they  might  lose  what 
they  have,  from  putting  in  a  determined  claim  to 
more. 

Muriel  had  as  yet  no  conscious  political  opin- 
ions (by  which  I  mean  opinions  as  to  the  right  or 
wrong  ways  of  organising  a  community  and 
managing  its  affairs),  but  she  disliked  instinc- 
tively the  division  of  her  fellow-creatures  into 
two  groups  consisting  of  Us  and  Them  and  the 
assumption  that  while  We  were  bound  by  a 
code  of  honour.  They  would  lose  no  chance  of 
cheating  and  deceiving  and  getting  as  much  out 
of  Us  as  They  could. 

"We  shall  be  able  to  look  after  ourselves," 
she  told  Aunt  Sybilla,  with  a  confident  smile  at 
Douglas,  who  had  been  so  far  a  listener. 

"Rather,"  he  said;  but  then  he  added:  "All 
the  same  I  should  keep  a  pretty  sharp  eye  on 
Mrs.  What's-her-name.  Those  sort  of  people 
are  out  for  all  they  can  get.  I  wouldn't  trust 
her  further  than  you  can  see  her." 

It  was  not  the  words  which  grated  on  her  so 
much  as  the  mean,  sneering  expression  on 
Duggy's  face. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'those  sort  of  people'?" 
she  asked  indignantly.  "Mrs.  Syrom  is  the  same 
sort  as  Nurse  and  dear  old  Cook  who's  been 


40      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

so  good  to  us  all.  Have  you  got  anything 
against  them?" 

"They're  different,"  said  Douglas  shortly. 

Aunt  Sybilla  looked  from  one  to  the  other 
with  malicious  amusement  in  her  narrow  eyes. 
She  foresaw  that  these  two  would  soon  be  at 
loggerheads  on  many  points. 

§  iii 

However,  no  shadow  fell  upon  their  friendli- 
ness so  long  as  they  were  settling  in.  They  had 
so  much  to  tell  each  other  every  day  about  their 
experiences  in  starting  work,  and  so  many  mat- 
ters of  domestic  interest  to  talk  over  that  they 
lived  in  a  warmth  of  contentment  and  mutual 
satisfaction. 

"Your  wife '11  have  an  easy  time,"  she  told  him 
one  evening  after  they  had  "discussed"  patterns 
for  curtains  to  supersede  those  of  the  landlady, 
and  had  "tried"  where  pictures  would  look  best 
on  their  sitting-room  walls.  "Trying"  places 
meant  that  Muriel  said,  "I  think  this  is  all  right,'* 
and  Douglas  knocked  the  nails  in.  "Discussing'* 
curtains  came  down  to  this:  that  Muriel  had 
already  decided  on  one  of  the  patterns  which  she 
"forced"  upon  her  brother  just  as  a  suave 
conjurer  "forces"  a  card  upon  an  unsuspecting 
spectator. 

"How  do  you  mean  easy?"  he  inquired. 

"Why,  you're  so  easily  pleased — about  house 
things,  I  mean." 

"Oh,  well,  that's  a  woman's  job.  I  don't  pre- 
tend to  know  about  it.    As  long  as  I'm  comfort- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       41 

able  and  the  food's  decent,  I  don't  suppose  I 
shall  ever  grouse." 

"No;  and  that's  very  nice  of  you,  Duggy;  and 
yet,  do  you  know,"  she  went  on  reflectively, 
"there  are  times  when  I  wish  you  did  have  an 
occasional  opinion  about  pictures  and  patterns, 
though  I  suppose,  if  you  did,  I  shouldn't  always 
get  my  own  way." 

"Women  ought  to  have  their  own  way  in  the 
house,"  Duggy  pontificated.  "That's  their 
sphere  of  influence,  as  the  political  fellers  say.'* 

Muriel's  brow  puckered.  Sometimes  her 
brother  seemed  strangely  uncomprehending,  al- 
most stupid.  Didn't  he  imderstand  that  this 
old  division  of  territory  into  "Home,  the  wom- 
an's, and  Outside,  the  man's,"  was  as  antiquated 
as  the  political  idea  of  making  this  or  that  na- 
tion's influence  in  this  or  that  undeveloped  coun- 
try supreme?  Nations,  she  had  been  taught, 
were  going  to  give  up  the  watertight  compart- 
ment plan.  They  were  going  to  work  on  the 
principle  that  in  co-operation,  not  competition, 
lay  their  true  advantage.  So,  too,  men  and 
women  were  abandoning  the  old  notion  of  manly 
or  womanly  aptitudes,  occupations,  interests. 
She  was  herself  a  proof  of  this.  Yet  Duggy 
went  on  talking  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

She  would  not  say  anything  to  stir  up  strife, 
but  she  felt  she  would  like  to  say  what  she 
thought  about  boys'  Public  Schools.  How 
backward  in  idea  the  people  who  taught  in  them 
must  be!  Her  mind  went  back  to  a  conversa- 
tion she  had  once  had  with  Mims  on  this  verjr 


J 


42      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

topic.  Aunt  Sybilla  had  started  it  by  denounc- 
ing the  High  School  mistress  who  encouraged 
Muriel  in  wishing  to  take  up  some  employment 
and  earn  her  own  living. 

"These  silly  creatures  don't  know  the  h-harm 
they  may  be  doing,"  she  complained.  "Putting 
ideas  into  children's  heads  I" 

"Not  such  a  bad  stuffing  for  their  heads,  my 
dear,"  said  Mims.  "I'm  sorry  there  weren't 
more  High  Schools  in  our  young  days." 

"I  can't  share  your  so-sorrow,"  retorted  Aunt 
Sybilla.  "Seems  to  me  they've  changed  the  Eng- 
lish girl  altogether.  Made  her  independent, 
uppish,  unwomanly." 

"Oh  no,"  Mims  protested;  "they're  doing 
good,  not  harm." 

"It  was  High  School  mistresses  who  were  re- 
sponsible for  the  suffrage  agitation  with  all  its 
disgraceful  excesses.  You  didn't  approve  of 
them." 

"Not  of  everything  that  was  done.  But  then 
what  change  has  ever  been  made  without  a  little 
violence,  a  little  impatience  and  excitability  here 
and  there?    The  change  had  to  come." 

"Yes,  after  the  High  School  mistresses  had 
been  preaching  it  s-secretly  for  so  many  years, 
undermining  sound  principles  and  the  teaching 
of  the  Church,  contrary  altogether  to  the  wishes 
of  parents — disgraceful  I  think  it  was." 

"No,  I  can't  agree  with  that,"  Mims  had  said 
gently.  "I  don't  dispute  the  influence  High 
School  mistresses  have,  and  the  new  type  of 
woman  they  have  helped  to  produce.     I  think 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       43 

that  will  be  understood  even  better  in  the  future 
than  it  is  to-day.  But  I  think  that  those  who 
come  after  us  will  see  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
usefulness  in  what  they  did." 

Aunt  Sybilla  had  snorted  and  left  the  field. 
Then  INIims  had  turned  to  her  eldest  daughter. 

"Your  aunt  is  one  of  those  who  think  that 
when  they  hold  their  hands  up  the  universe  ought 
to  stand  still,  as  it  did  for  Joshua.  Remember 
this,  my  darling,  it  will  be  a  help  to  you  all  your 
life:  the  universe  won't  stand  still  for  anybody. 
You  may  stop  the  hand  of  the  clock  from  mark- 
ing sunrise  time,  but  no  one  can  stop  the  sun 
from  rising  and  a  new  day  from  beginning.  I 
think  the  High  School  mistresses  have  been  pre- 
paring for  the  new  day,  and  I  wish  there  had 
been  as  many  masters  in  boys'  schools  who  had 
used  the  same  kind  of  influence.  I  am  afraid 
boys  are  mostly  being  brought  up  with  their  eyes 
on  the  past  instead  of  on  the  future." 

Muriel  had  not  then  quite  understood  what 
Mims  meant  by  this.  Douglas  was  enlightening 
her.  However,  she  would  keep  her  thoughts, 
for  the  present  at  any  rate,  to  herself. 

"Well,  anyway,"  she  said  good-humour edly, 
"within  her  sphere,  as  you  call  it,  your  wife  will 
have  her  own  way." 

"And  so  will  you,  I  bet,  when  you're  mar- 
ried," Duggy  answered,  with  a  grin. 

"Married?  Me?"  she  said,  genuinely  sur- 
prised, for  in  her  dreams  of  the  future  a  husband 
had  found  no  place.  "Oh  no,  thank  you.  I 
shall  have  too  much  else  to  do." 


CHAPTER  IV 


Muriel  did  not  know  whether  to  be  pleased  with 
the  antiquity  or  annoyed  by  the  silliness  of  the 
traditions  which  she  found  in  force  at  her  Inn 
of  Court. 

When  she  was  told  that  a  horn  was  still  blown, 
or  had  been  blown  until  lately,  at  a  certain  hour 
because  at  that  hour  in  a  past  age  it  was  neces- 
sary to  summon  to  their  dinner  students  who 
might  be  playing  in  the  fields  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river,  her  imagination  thrilled.  She  could 
fancy  the  "sparkling  Thames"  and  the  meadows 
which  bordered  it,  the  ferry-boat  which  took  the 
Templars  across  and  the  marshy  ground  they  had 
to  scramble  over  before  they  mounted  the  rise 
on  which  the  Temple  stood. 

The  Sunday  night  pudding  she  approved  of 
heartily.  Queen  Elizabeth,  she  learned,  dined 
once  in  the  Hall  of  the  Inn  and  gave  the  Bench- 
ers a  recipe  for  a  pudding  (whether  this  was  a 
hint  that  the  Queen  did  not  think  much  of  their 
pudding,  Muriel  could  not  discover).  They 
found  it  excellent,  and  in  order  to  make  sure 
of  getting  it  the  same  every  time  they  always 
left  a  piece  over  for  the  cook  to  mix  in  with  the 
next  week's.     This  Muriel  thought  rather  an 

44 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE      45 

unlikely  tale,  but  she  swallowed  it  with  the  pud- 
ding, which  pleased  her  much. 

In  the  traditional  etiquette  at  dinner,  how- 
ever, she  found  no  merit  at  all.  Why,  for  in- 
stance, should  you  not  be  supposed  to  speak  to 
the  member  of  another  mess  during  the  meal? 

"It  isn't,  you  know,"  she  explained  to  Doug- 
las, "as  if  we  were  at  separate  tables.  Each 
mess  is  four  people,  and  we  sit  at  long  tables. 
We're  divided  off  into  our  messes  only  by  a 
special  way  of  laying  the  cloth,  so  as  to  make 
a  sort  of  barrier  out  of  our  glasses.  Why  you 
shouldn't  speak  to  the  person  next  you  seems 
to  me  absurd  I  You  can  when  the  Benchers  have 
gone  out  to  get  their  coffee,  but  not  till  then." 

"I  suppose  it's  an  old  custom,"  Duggy  said, 
quite  ready  to  accept  that  as  a  good  reason  for 
anything. 

"Of  course  it  is.  No  one  would  be  fool  enough 
to  invent  such  a  custom  to-day.  But  why  keep 
it  up  just  because  it's  old?" 

The  women  students  sat  together,  which 
seemed  to  Muriel  to  be  a  pity,  especially  as  she 
caught  the  eye  often  of  a  jolly  laughing  boy 
and  thought  it  would  have  been  much  better 
fun  to  sit  with  him  than  with  her  three  rather 
serious  and  unattractive  companions.  The  cap- 
tain of  the  mess  was  in  a  Government  office  and 
wanted  to  be  called  to  the  Bar  in  order  to  qualify 
for  some  inspectorship.  Of  the  other  two,  one 
was  from  Oxford,  with  the  advantage  of  hav- 
ing read  Law  there;  the  other  came  from  a 
northern  university  and  was  really  horrified  to 


46      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

see  wine  'put  on  the  table  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"AhVe  never  touched  wine  i*  ma  life,"  she 
said  indignantly. 

"Well,  there's  no  need  for  you  to  touch  it 
now,"  the  captain  of  the  mess  told  her  curtly. 
"Our  allowance,"  she  went  on  to  the  other  two, 
"is  one  bottle  of  claret  or  sherry  and  half-a- 
bottle  of  port;  and,  by  the  way,  you  mustn't 
drink  port  until  the  Benchers  have  left 
Hall." 

"And  do  those  'at  don't  take  it  have  to  pay 
for  it  same  as  those  'at  do?"  asked  the  total 
abstainer  anxiously. 

"Everybody  pays  the  same  price,  three  bob 
for  dinner,  and  sixpence  for  the  hire  of  a  gown," 
the  captain  told  her. 

"Ah  think  it's  a  shame,  payin'  for  somethin' 
one  doesn't  want." 

t  "It's  a  cheap  dinner  even  if  you  don't  take 
your  share  of  the  wine,"  the  captain  said,  and 
Muriel  was  inclined  to  agree.  Soup,  fish,  joint, 
sweet  and  cheese  for  three  shillings  was  a  more 
plentiful  and  less  expensive  meal  than  she  could 
provide  at  home,  and  on  certain  days  there  was 
curry  as  well,  supplied  for  the  special  benefit  of 
the  Mohammedans,  but  served  to  the  rest  if  they 
wanted  it. 

"How  did  the  'eating  of  dinners'  come  to  be 
part  of  the  Bar  student's  course,  does  anyone 
know?"  asked  the  Oxford  young  woman  one 
evening. 

"Wasn't  it  so  that  they  mightn't  admit  any- 
one who  didn't  know  how  to  eat  properly  and 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       47 

wouldn't  be  a  pleasant  companion  at  table?" 
Muriel  suggested. 

She  had  been  made  a  little  nervous  by  the 
thought  of  the  dinner,  of  which  she  was  obliged 
to  eat  several  each  term,  but  quickly  shook  oflp 
her  shyness  when  she  found  that  her  companions 
were  quite  prepared  to  be  companionable. 

"Just  kept  up  because  it's  a  link  with  the  past? 
I  wonder.  I  never  thought  about  it,"  the  cap- 
tain admitted.    "I  dare  say  you're  right." 

"And  ah  dare  say  you're  wrong,"  put  in  the 
Lancashire  lass.  "It's  kept  oop  to  make  money 
by  chargin'  people  for  what  they  doesn't  take." 

The  girl  from  Oxford,  Creston  by  name, 
caught  Muriel's  eye  and  winked.  Muriel  felt 
happier  at  once.  She  guessed  that,  in  spite  of 
her  solemn  appearance,  Miss  Creston  was  one  of 
her  own  sort. 

§ii 

Excepting  Saturdays,  Sundays  and  guest 
nights,  the  dinner-hour  was  six,  so  on  the  days 
when  she  meant  to  dine  in  Hall,  Muriel  ran  lunch 
and  tea  into  one  meal  between  two  and  three 
o'clock.  She  had  determined  not  to  have  a 
"coach";  very  few  of  the  women  students  seemed 
to  be  able  to  afford  that.  A  good  deal  of  her 
work  she  decided  to  do  in  the  library  of  the  Inn, 
and  she  quickly  made  a  friend  there  of  one  of  the 
men,  who  fetched  books  for  readers:  so  quickly 
that  at  her  second  visit  he  told  her  that  for  four 
generations  his  family  had  been  in  the  service  of 
the  Inn. 


48      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"There's  little  I  can't  tell  you  about  the  old 
place,  miss,"  he  said,  with  pride,  and  his  friendli- 
ness made  her  feel  just  as  much  at  her  ease  in 
the  Library  as  she  did  in  Hall.  The  lectures 
she  attended  she  found  helpful,  and  they  had 
the  advantage  of  being  almost  free.  Only  a  very 
small  charge  had  to  be  paid  each  term. 

"Well,  you  pay  quite  enough  when  you  start, 
don't  you?"  Muriel  asked  Anne  Creston,  one 
evening,  when  she  had  looked  in  to  see  brother 
and  sister  at  Brook  Green;  she  herself  lived  in 
West  Kensington. 

"My  degree  got  me  off  a  good  deal  of  it," 
Anne  rephed.  "I  only  had  to  plank  down  about 
forty  pounds.  But  I  shall  have  to  pay  a  hundred 
when  I'm  called.    No  getting  out  of  that." 

"Why  is  it  so  expensive?"  Douglas  asked. 

"It's  a  trade  union,  you  see,  and  unions  always 
aim  at  making  it  difficult  to  get  into  them,  so  as 
to  keep  down  competition." 

"A  trade  union?"  repeated  Douglas.  "But 
trade  unions  are  only  for  workmen." 

"Oh  no,"  explained  Anne;  "the  barristers  and 
the  doctors  have  the  strongest  trade  unions 
of  all.  They  have  made  the  State  recognise 
them.  If  you  try  to  practise  medicine  or  to 
give  advice  about  law  without  being  a  member 
of  the  union  you  can  be  prosecuted  and  sent  to 
prison." 

"Oh  yes,"  admitted  Douglas  loftily;  "but  that 
doesn't  make  them  trade  unions,  you  know." 

"How  should  you  define  a  trade  union?"  Miss 
Creston    inquired,    remembering    the    Socratic 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       49 

method  of  argument,  which  she  learned  from  the 
Dialogues  of  Plato. 

"It's  a  lot  of  workmen,  engineers  or  brick- 
layers or  miners,  who  say  they  won't  let  anyone 
work  at  engineering  or  bricklaying  or  mining 
unless  he  belongs  to  the  union — tyranny,  I 
call  it." 

"You  mean  that  anyone  ought  to  be  free  to 
follow  any  occupation  he  chooses  without  let  or 
hindrance?" 

"Certainly.  That's  what  I  mean.  These 
unions  take  away  liberty." 

"Then  you  would  say  that  it  is  wrong  for  the 
legal  and  the  medical  authorities  to  refuse  to  let 
anyone  practise  law  or  be  a  doctor  unless  he 
belongs  to  one  of  the  legal  or  medical  unions?" 

Douglas  saw  he  had  fallen  into  a  trap. 

"Very  clever,"  he  said,  with  a  sneer,  "but  you 
don't  catch  me  out  as  easily  as  that.  It  isn't  the 
same  thing  at  all.  You  said  just  now  there  are 
Acts  of  Parliament  about  doctoring  and  being 
a  lawyer.  There  are  no  Acts  of  Parliament  about 
being  a  bricklayer  or  an  engineer." 

"No,  because  the  other  trades  haven't  been 
strong  enough  to  get  Parliament  to  recognise 
their  unions." 

"But  law  and  doctoring  aren't  trades,"  ob- 
jected Douglas  doggedly.  "They're  profes- 
sions." 

"What's  the  difference?" 

"For  a  profession  you've  got  to  study  a  lot," 
said  the  boy  slowly,  thinking  hard  in  the  hope 
of  hitting  upon  some  (crushing  reply.    Suddenly 


50      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

one  came  into  his  mind.  "And  it*s  for  the  pro- 
tection of  the  public,"  he  went  on  triumphantly. 

"If  anyone  could  be  a  doctor  or  a  lawyer 

Why,  the  thing's  out  of  the  question." 

"Why?" 

"Why?  Because  people  who  hadn't  passed 
the  exams,  and  aU  that  wouldn't  be  any  good; 
they'd  be  frauds." 

Anne  Creston  smiled  pityingly. 

"Don't  you  know  that  one  of  the  cleverest 
lawyers  to-day  is  a  man  who  was  never  called 
to  the  Bar?  And  haven't  you  heard  of  cures 
by  unqualified  doctors  in  cases  where  regular 
doctors  have  failed?  It  isn't  to  protect  the  pub- 
lic that  these  unions  exist,  but  to  protect  their 
members." 

"Quite  right  too,"  said  Muriel  gaily,  to  save 
her  brother  from  further  discomfiture.  "I  shall 
be  glad  of  protection  if  I  ever  get  through. 
Now  what  about  another  cigarette?" 

"Don't  care  for  that  girl  who  was  here  last 
night,"  Douglas  remarked  at  breakfast,  "seemed 
to  think  she  knew  everything.  Can't  stand  girls 
like  that." 

§  iii 

Somehow  the  talk  at  dinner  in  Hall  one  even- 
ing fell  upon  marriage.  A  Church  dignitary 
who  had  cleverly  secured  notoriety  by  lecturing 
here,  there  and  anywhere  in  a  vein  of  cynical 
despair  and  frank  contempt  for  the  doctrine  he 
was  paid  to  teach,  had  been  denouncing  women 
for  taking  up  other  occupations  than  that  of 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       51 

motherhood.  This  provoked  Anne  Creston  to 
ask  why  he  didn't  go  a  step  further  and  propose 
polygamy,  which  was  the  corollary  to  his  theory 
that  all  women  should  be  mothers. 

"Some  of  us,"  she  said,  "would  be  glad  enough 
if  we  got  the  chance,  but  under  present  arrange- 
ments a  lot  of  us  can't.  I  don't  particularly  want 
to  earn  my  own  hving,  but  I  can't  help  it.  The 
likehhood  of  my  getting  married  isn't  great,  and 
when  my  mother  dies  and  her  annuity  stops,  I 
shall  have  less  than  a  hundred  a  year.  It's  lucky 
for  me  the  annuity's  big  enough  to  give  me  a 
start  in  life." 

"Oh,  but  don't  you  feel,"  Muriel  broke  in, 
"that  there's  something  clean  and  dignified  about 
being  independent,  supporting  oneself?  Even  if 
I  were  certain  of  getting  married,  I  should  still 
want  to  pass  my  exams,  and  get  my  call.  It 
must  be  a  great  thing  to  know  you  can  make  your 
own  living,  even  if  you  don't  have  to." 

"I  agree,"  said  the  Lancashire  lass  emphatic- 
ally. "That's  what  I  said  to  father,  and  that's 
why  I'm  here." 

"No,  I  don't  feel  like  that  a  bit,"  dissented 
Anne.  "Ever  since  I  was  twelve  I've  been  work- 
ing as  hard  as  I  knew  how  for  some  exam,  or 
other,  and  hard  work's  what  I've  got  to  look  for- 
ward to  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  I'm  prepared 
to  say  *Yes;  thank  you,'  to  any  man  who  makes 
me  an  offer." 

"You  know  you  wouldn't,"  Muriel  declared. 
"You,  with  your  fastidious  tastes  I" 

"Oh,  of  course,  he'd  have  to  be  a  decent  sort 


y 


52      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

and  talk  my  language.  Seriously,  though,  I 
shouldn't  turn  any  likely  proposer  down." 

"I  think  you're  right,"  the  captain  said.  "I'm 
all  for  giving  women  the  same  chances  as  men, 
everywhere,  but  I  do  think  healthy  women  ought 
to  marry,  if  it's  only  for  the  sake  of  the  race.  I 
shall  marry  when  I've  got  a  settled  position." 

"I  suppose  you'll  wait  till  somebody  asks  you," 
put  in  Miss  Boothroyd  jovially. 

"No ;  I  don't  know  that  I  should.  Why  should 
I?  Now  that  woman's  economic  status  is 
altered " 

"Oh,  economic  I"  protested  Anne,  "a  word  that 
always  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  were  in  for  an 
exam." 

"Well,  now  that  women  aren't  obliged  to  be 
dependent  upon  men  for  a  living,  whatever  rea- 
son is  there  for  keeping  up  the  pretence  that  the 
choice  of  mates  lies  with  men?  Any  woman  of 
ordinary  good  looks  and  ordinary  ability  can 
inveigle  a  man  into  making  love  to  her,  and  Eng- 
lishmen almost  all  make  love  pour  le  hon  motif. 
It  isn't  so  with  Frenchmen.  Marriage  with  them 
is  a  matter  of  calculation,  not  of  sentiment.  And 
there  are  some  Englishmen  like  that,  but  not 
many." 

Here  the  long  grace  after  meat  interrupted 
them.  When  they  sat  down  again.  Miss  Booth- 
royd squared  her  elbows  on  the  table  and  said: 
"You  broke  off  in  the  middle.    Go  on." 

"Where  did  I  get  to?  Oh  yes,  I  was  saying 
that  women  could  exercise  their  choice  all  right, 
but  only  by  pretending  that  it  was  really  men 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       53 

who  chose  them.  Now  there's  no  need  for  any 
humbug  about  it." 

"There'll  always  be  humbug,"  Anne  asserted 
vehemently.  "Humbug  is  the  basis  of  all  human 
relationships,  especially  the  relationship  between 
men  and  women." 

"That  may  be,  but  the  form  of  it  changes  from 
time  to  time." 

"I  don't  quite  see,  though,"  said  Muriel,  "what 
particular  change  you  have  in  your  mind." 

"Why,  don't  you  see,  so  long  as  men  were  in 
the  superior  economic  position  (I'm  sorry,  but 
I  can't  do  without  'economic')  women  couldn't 
say:  *I  should  like  to  marry  you,'  because  it 
would  have  been  the  same  thing  as  saying :  'Will 
you  kindly  support  me?'  Women  who  are  equal 
to  men  so  far  as  earning  a  living  goes,  or  superior 
to  them,  can't  be  suspected  of  simply  wanting 
to  be  fed  and  clothed." 

"That's  all  I  want,"  Anne  declared,  looking 
round  defiantly.    "I'm  sick  and  tired  of  work." 

"Then  it's  your  opinion,  is  it,"  asked  Miss 
Boothroyd,  "that  if  a  lass  has  more  brass  than 
a  man,  she  can  chuck  herself  at  his  head?  I 
don't  seem  to  see  a  nice  lass  doin'  it." 

"What  about  Queen  Victoria?" 

"Ay,  what  about  her?    You  don't  mean " 

"Of  course  she  means,"  interrupted  the  impetu- 
ous Anne.  "Didn't  you  know  Queen  Victoria 
proposed  to  the  Prince  Consort — Prince  Albert 
he  was  then?  He  couldn't  propose  to  her  be- 
cause she  was  a  far  bigger  pot  and  had  piles 
more  money." 


54      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"Then  is  it  to  come  to  this,"  Muriel  inquired, 
"that  whichever,  man  or  woman,  has  the  bigger 
income  and  the  swankier  position  socially  will 
propose?  So  that  if  I  want  to  marry  a  duke,  I 
must  wait  for  him  to  ask  me,  but  suppose  I  fall 
in  love  with  a  dustman,  I  can  ask  him  to  marry 
me. 

"No;  I  don't  mean  quite  that,"  the  captain 
said.  "I  don't  see  why  there  should  be  any  hard- 
and-fast  rule  about  it.  Some  women  and  some 
men  will  always  wait  until  they're  asked,  just 
because  they  don't  feel  inclined  to  do  the  asking. 
The  old  idea  was  that  men  were  the  pursuers, 
that  they  were  born  with  the  hunting  instinct, 
and  that  women  were  always  the  hunted.  Then 
a  new  theory  got  started,  that  it  was  woman  who 
chased  men — you  know — Man  and  Superman 
and  all  that." 

"Yes,  and  both  theories  are  bosh,"  declared 
Anne.  "Biological  bosh  to  start  with,  and  psy- 
chological bosh  as  well.  Men's  characters  and 
women's  aren't  essentially  different  in  any  way 
— ^you  can't  draw  rigid  distinctions  between 
them." 

"Eh;  that's  queer  talk." 

"It  may  sound  queer  in  Lancashire,"  said  the 
captain,  "but  what  Creston  says  is  perfectly  true. 
There  are  women  like  Ann  Whitefield  and  there 
are  plenty  of  the  pursuing  kind  of  men,  but  you 
can't  stick  labels  on  to  any  characteristic  and  say 
'That  is  manly'  or  'That  is  womanly.'  Science 
has  knocked  all  that  Victorian  rot  on  the  head." 

"Yes,  and  if  we  had  any  scientists  capable  of 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       55 

seeing  beyond  their  noses,  like  Huxley  and  Tyn- 
dall  and  Alfred  Russel  Wallace,  they'd  explain 
it  to  the  world,  as  those  men  used  to  explain  the 
scientific  discoveries  of  their  time.  But  none  of 
the  scientists  now,"  continued  Anne,  in  a  tone 
of  indignation,  "are  big  enough  to  take  an  inter- 
est in  anything  beyond  their  own  special  sub- 
jects or  to  care  how  they  link  up  with  other  sub- 
jects. Science  has  been  absolutely  no  use  to  the 
Forward  Movement.  In  fact  it  has  tried  to  put 
snags  in  its  way,  whenever  it  has  taken  any  notice 
of  it  at  all." 

"Ah,  ye  may  rightly  call  it  the  'forward'  move- 
ment," put  in  Miss  Boothroyd,  enjoying  her 
little  joke,  "if  you're  going  to  make  women's  pro- 
posals part  of  it." 

And  then  there  was  a  general  movement;  the 
girls  got  up  to  leave  the  Hall. 

Anne  and  Muriel  took  their  homeward  way 
together  on  the  top  of  an  omnibus. 

"What  did  you  mean  by  saying  humbug  is  the 
basis  of  everything?"  Muriel  asked  her  friend. 

"I  meant  that  we're  insincere  about  every- 
thing; we  deceive  ourselves  into  thinking  that 
black  is  white;  that  we  act  from  quite  different 
motives  to  those  which  really  affect  us.  How 
many  churches  do  we  pass  on  this  journey?  At 
least  a  dozen — more  than  that.  Do  you  think 
life  would  be  what  it  is  to-day  if  they  weren't  all 
based  on  humbug?  They  humbug  themselves 
into  believing  that  Christ's  teaching  was  exactly 
the  same  as  the  Scribes'  and  Pharisees',  whom 
He  was  always  slanging.    But  we've  had  enough 


56      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

of  this  at  dinner.  Tell  me  where  I  can  get  a 
hat  for  ten  shillings  that  will  look  as  if  it  cost 
thirty-five-and-six." 

So  Muriel's  education  progressed. 


CHAPTER  V 

§i 

For  the  most  part  Muriel  and  Douglas  lived  on 
excellent  terms.  She  knew  his  mind  intimately, 
so  she  was  able,  as  long  as  she  chose,  to  keep  off 
topics  likely  to  breed  disagreement  of  a  serious 
kind. 

Sometimes  of  set  purpose  she  provoked  him, 
dropped  apparently  casual  remarks  which  she 
knew  would  annoy  and  sting  him  into  furious 
protest  against  what  he  called  "the  Bolshevism 
she  had  learnt  from  her  friend  Miss  Creston." 
But  these  darts  and  barbs  she  kept  for  occasions 
on  which  she  felt  waspish,  when  her  customary 
tolerance  of  what  she  called  his  "reactionary  atti- 
tude" had  to  be  reheved  and  set  going  again  by 
a  liberation  of  the  suppressed  antagonism  that 
was  never  far  below  the  surface  of  their  daily 
intercourse. 

When  a  man  causes  irritation  by  treading  upon 
tender  spots  or  stirring  the  waters  of  strife,  the 
chances  are  ten  to  one  that  he  is  a  blunderer, 
too  obtuse  to  see  where  he  is  going.  Should  the 
offender  be  a  woman,  it  is  ten  to  one  that  she 
knows  quite  well  what  she  is  doing  and  has  some 
object  in  doing  it. 

If  Douglas  had  formed  opinions  for  himself, 
his  sister  might  have  respected  him,  however  little 

57 


>/ 


58      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

she  liked  them,  but  she  could  see  so  plainly  that 
he  embraced  whatever  creed  or  custom  was  pre- 
scribed by  his  deity,  "Good  Form."  While 
Muriel  argued  and  analysed  and  did  her  best  to 
make  Reason  her  guide,  he  questioned  neither 
behaviour  nor  behef  if  he  noticed  that  it  was 
under  the  patronage  of  the  "best  people."  Thus, 
although  he  did  not  go  to  church  himself,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  his  sister  ought  to  go.  It  was 
the  "proper  thing." 

One  of  their  fiercest  disputes  arose  over  bet- 
ting. Anne  had  a  cousin  who  was  studying  for 
the  stage.  She  was  a  hght-hearted  little  creature, 
with  big,  impudent  eyes  and  a  flitting  movement 
which  proved  that  she  was  a  born  dancer.  She 
had  taken  up  her  quarters  at  Mrs.  Creston's, 
so  Muriel  saw  her  often  and  liked  her  as  she  might 
have  liked  an  amusing  kitten  or  puppy.  At  the 
school  of  acting  she  had  quickly  picked  up  the 
habit  of  backing  horses.  There  was  much  talk 
among  a  certain  set  about  racing,  though  not  one 
of  them  had  ever  seen  a  big  race  or  knew  any- 
thing more  about  its  probabilities  than  could  be 
learned  from  an  evening  newspaper.  They  put 
on  their  shillings  and  half-crowns  with  a  book- 
maker doing  business  at  a  small  restaurant ;  as  a 
rule  they  lost  their  stakes.  But  they  had  a  feel- 
ing that  they  were  seeing  life,  and  showing  by 
their  familiarity  with  the  odds  how  well  they 
knew  the  world,  and  behaving  like  real  profes- 
sionals. 

Muriel  chaffed  Poppy  Sand  about  wasting  her 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       59 

money — or  rather  her  father's  money,  which  he 
scraped  together,  not  without  difficulty,  as  a  corn 
and  coal  merchant  in  a  country  town.  She  had 
even  reasoned  with  her,  and  tried  to  make  her 
see  how  silly  the  habit  was. 

"They  all  do  it,"  was  Poppy's  pouting  defence, 
"and  we're  only  young  once." 

"All  the  more  reason  to  enjoy  ourselves  with 
what  money  we've  got,"  Muriel  pressed  her.  "It 
doesn't  really  amuse  you  to  bet." 

"Yes,  it  does,  and  then  there's  always  a  chance 
of  making  a  bit.  There  was  once  a  girl  at  the 
school  who  won  hundreds  of  pounds." 

"There  was  once  a  pig  who  could  fly," 
mimicked  Muriel,  "but  no  one  can  remember  his 
name  and  address." 

"No,  but  really — oh,  I  know  you  won't  believe 
anything  I  tell  you.  I  don't  care  though.  One 
must  have  some  little  interest  and  excitement 
to  get  one  through  life." 

"Good  Lord,  to  hear  you  talk  you  might  be 
fifty  and  leading  the  dullest  of  lives.  Haven't 
you  interest  enough  in  your  work?  Doesn't  it 
excite  you  to  be  in  for  the  medals  competition? 
All  this  betting  is  so  stupid  and  so  common- 
snobbish  too.  You  only  do  it,  you  said  so  just 
now,  because  others  do  it." 

"I  didn't  say  'only.'  ...  Of  course  I  know 
frightfully  serious  people  like  you  and  Anne  who 
are  going  to  be  lawyers  never  bet  nor  have  any 
fun.  ..." 

"Don't  talk  rot,"  Muriel  told  her.  "Of  course 
we  have  lots  of  fun,  and  all  the  more  because  we 


60      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

don't  throw  away  our  money  just  to  be  like  other 
silly  people." 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  was  born  to  be  silly," 
Poppy  said  by  way  of  ending  the  discussion  and, 
catching  Muriel  by  the  waist,  swung  her  into  a 
dance  they  had  been  practising  a  little  before. 

This  was  in  anticipation  of  a  fancy-dress  ball 
of  the  cheaper  kind  to  which  they  were  going  in 
a  party.  On  the  morning  of  the  ball,  Douglas 
picked  up  an  envelope  from  the  breakfast 
table  and  looked  at  the  writing  with  particular 
interest. 

"Looks  like  the  Bloomer's,"  he  said.  "I  didn't 
know  he  was  in  London" ;  and  when  he  had  read 
the  letter  he  said  to  Muriel;  "I  say,  I  may  be  a 
bit  late  to-night.  Old  Bloomer  wants  me  to  go 
to  Sandown  with  his  people.  Awfully  decent  of 
him.  He's  been  in  France  for  a  year.  Lucky 
I  can  get  off  to-day.  He  isn't  starting  till 
twelve." 

This  was  a  schoolfellow,  the  son  of  a  rich  man 
who  had  made  a  hit  in  poHtics  by  giving  excep- 
tionally good  dinners,  and  spicing  his  week-end 
parties  with  amusing  people  not  to  be  met  with 
elsewhere. 

As  it  happened,  Douglas  was  not  late  back. 
He  was  unfamiliar  with  racing,  he  did  not  know 
that  it  ended  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon.  He 
said  he  had  enjoyed  himself,  but  did  not  look  as 
if  his  outing  had  altogether  been  a  success. 
Muriel  was  made  aware  of  the  reason  for  this 
when  Poppy  Sand,  after  a  dance  with  Douglas, 
stopped  and  said,  "It's  a  relief  to  find  your 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       61 

brother  isn't  so  down  on  betting  as  you  were, 
my  dear." 

Muriel  looked  at  Douglas.    He  reddened. 

"I  was  just  telling  Miss  Sand,"  he  muttered, 
"that  I  hadn't  had  a  very  good  day  at  Sandown." 

"Of  course  it's  nothing  to  anyone  who  goes 
racing  constantly,  as  he  does,  but  where  I  lose 
shillings,  he  loses  pounds.     I  call  it  thrilhng." 

"Pounds?"  echoed  Muriel,  looking  in  amaze- 
ment from  one  to  the  other. 

"I'm  just  taking  Miss  Sand  to  get  an  ice," 
her  brother  said  hastily.  "Come  along,"  and  he 
hurried  his  partner  away. 

§ii 

At  breakfast,  Muriel,  who  never  hesitated  in 
her  approach  to  an  unpleasant  topic  if  she  felt 
that  it  had  to  be  tackled,  asked  her  brother  point 
blank,  as  she  gave  him  his  coffee,  "What  did 
Poppy  Sand  mean  about  your  losing  pounds  at 
Sandown?    You  didn't,  did  you?" 

Nothing  had  been  said  overnight,  Anne  and 
Poppy  had  been  with  them  as  far  as  their  door; 
once  inside,  Douglas  had  run  upstairs  and  after 
a  hasty  "good-night"  had  plunged  into  his  room. 
Now  he  frowned,  blushed,  let  several  moments 
pass  before  he  rephed: 

"I  did  drop  a  bit.  Oh,  nothing  serious,  you 
know.    But  I  had  rotten  luck." 

"Whatever  did  you  bet  for,  Duggy?  We  have 
a  pretty  tight  squeeze  to  make  our  money  do. 
We  can't  afford  to  chuck  it  about." 

"I  couldn't  help  it,"  the  boy  said,  softened  by 


62      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

his  sister's  friendly  mode  of  remonstrance.  "I 
had  to  put  a  bit  on.  Everyone  else  was  doing  it. 
Bloomer  lost  three  or  four  times  as  much  as  I 

did." 

"The  Bloomfields  are  three  or  four  hundred 
times  as  well  off  as  we  are.  They  don't  feel  their 
losses." 

"Well,  I'm  not  likely  to  go  again  for  a  good 
long  time." 

"I  suppose  you  made  Poppy  Sand  believe  you 
went  every  other  day  to  races,"  Muriel  put  in 
scornfully,  suddenly  recollecting  what  the  girl 
had  said,  and  seizing  on  it  as  a  handy  missile. 

"No,  I  didn't,"  Douglas  muttered  sulkily. 
"She  made  that  up.  Silly  httle  idiot  to  say  any- 
thing at  all.    All  this  fuss  about  nothing." 

"It  isn't  the  money  that  matters  so  much, 
though  I  suppose  it's  taken  your  savings  for  all 
this  term.  It's  your  silly  idea  that  you  must  do 
whatever  other  people  do." 

"Nobody  goes  to  the  races  without  betting," 
Douglas  growled. 

"More  fools  they,"  retorted  Muriel  briskly. 
"Surely  you  needn't  make  an  idiot  of  yourself, 
just  to  be  in  the  fashion." 

"Idiot  yourself,"  was  Duggy's  counterstroke. 
"Do  you  mean  to  say  the  King  and  the  Prince 
of  Wales  are  fools?  They  go  to  the  races,  and 
of  course  they  bet.    Everyone  does,  I  tell  you." 

"Whatever  has  that  got  to  do  with  your  bet- 
ting? You  can't  have  a  rottener  reason  for  doing 
a  thing  than  that  'everyone  does  it.'  It's  so 
feeble  to  use  that  argimient." 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       63 

"YouVe  got  to  be  like  other  people,"  Douglas 
persisted.  "If  you  aren't  they  call  you  a  fad- 
dist." 

"What  does  it  matter  what  they  call  you? 
I'd  sooner  be  called  a  faddist  than  be  a  sheep." 

"You're  always  so  sure  everybody  else  is  wrong 
if  they  don't  agree  with  you.  I  say  if  everyone 
does  a  thing,  that  shows  there  can't  be  anything 
really  wrong  in  it." 

He  shot  out  of  the  room  before  she  could  an- 
swer, and  very  soon  she  heard  him  go  out. 

That  day  in  the  Library  she  met  Anne,  and 
when  they  went  out  to  lunch  at  a  tiny  restaurant 
close  to  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  where  there  was  a 
great  deal  of  blue  china  and  dainty  casement  cur- 
tains, and  red-and-blue  diaper  tablecloth,  with  a 
corresponding  scarcity  of  food,  she  asked  sud- 
denly, as  they  began  their  minute  portions  of  fish : 

"Do  you  believe  it's  really  better  to  try  and 
think  for  oneself  or  to  go  with  the  stream  and 
take  your  opinions  ready-made?" 

"My  dear,  of  course  it's  more  comfortable,  and 
more  paying  too,  to  be  like  everyone  else.  I  wish 
to  God  I  was." 

"You  might  pretend  to  be,  if  you  feel  it  so 
strongly  as  all  that." 

"No,  you  can't.  That's  the  curse  of  being  born 
different.    The  'damned  spot'  will  not  'out.'  " 

"But  take  you  and  me,  we  aren't  so  very  dif- 
ferent. At  least  I'm  not.  Of  course  you're 
clever  and  brainy.  You're  such  a  nailer  at 
exams.  But  in  our  opinions,  I  mean — they  are 
only  common  sense  after  all.    They're  no  credit 


64      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

to  us.  I  swear  I  don't  put  on  any  frills  because 
I  try  to  think  things  out.  It's  just  part  of  me, 
like  having  brown  eyes  or  black  hair.  Why 
should  one  be  called  a  faddist?" 

Anne  looked  up  quickly. 

"Who's  been  calling  you  that?" 

"Only  Douglas." 

Anne  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I  know  it  doesn't  matter  what  he  thinks," 
Muriel  said,  "but  after  all,  he  says  what  people 
in  general  say,  and  I  can't  see  why  they  should 
sneer  at  everyone  who  doesn't  behave  and  think 
exactly  as  they  do." 

"It's  part  of  our  Western  civilisation.  It 
began  with  the  Romans.  All  our  ideas  of  dis- 
cipline came  from  them.  And  it's  on  discipline 
that  our  ideas  are  based,"  mused  Anne,  almost  as 
if  she  were  speaking  to  herself. 

This  was  beyond  Muriel.  Her  face  betrayed 
her  puzzlement. 

"Sorry,  I  didn't  mean  to  lecture,"  Anne  apolo- 
gised. 

"No,  please;  I  want  to  understand." 

"The  East,  you  see,"  Anne  went  on,  "has 
never,  so  far  as  I  can  make  out,  cared  anything 
like  so  much  as  the  West  for  material  achieve- 
ments, trade  and  extending  authority,  making 
empires  and  realising  national  aspirations,  and 
all  that." 

"There  were  Eastern  empires,  weren't  there? 
Persia,  and  China,  and  India  at  times?" 

"Yes ;  but  they  were  made  by  single  conquerors 
or  by  families,  not  by  nations.    The  national  idea 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       65 

came  from  the  Romans,  and  it  required  strict 
discipline  in  all  sorts  of  ways.  That  explains 
why  we  can't  leave  each  other  alone,  why  those 
who  don't  dress  and  talk  like  others  of  their  class, 
and  hold  the  same  opinions  and  acknowledge  the 
same  rules  of  morality,  are  regarded  as  eccentric, 
even  as  enemies  of  society.  Look  here,  I  can't 
explain  it  half  as  well  as  that  Russian  composer 
Shelmetsof  I've  been  talking  to.  He's  my  au- 
thority.   You  must  talk  to  him  yourself." 

§  iii 

The  opportunity  for  Muriel  to  hear  the  views 
of  this  authority  came  a  few  days  later.  She 
was  invited  with  Anne  to  spend  Sunday  at  a  cot- 
tage on  the  Kentish  hills  where  the  merry-eyed 
law  student,  noticed  by  Muriel  at  her  first  dinner 
in  Hall,  lived  with  his  father,  a  poet  of  revolu- 
tionary bias. 

Muriel  had  soon  got  to  know  this  jolly-looking 
boy.  She  was  not  pretty  in  the  conventional  way, 
but  she  had  fine  dark  eyes  and  a  lively  smile.  Her 
glance  of  sympathetic  interest  was  returned,  the 
two  became  acquainted  over  a  book  in  the 
Library;  they  sometimes  lunched  together,  and 
were  in  process  of  building  up  a  friendship  based 
chiefly  upon  a  common  delight  in  finding  out  the 
ridiculous  side  of  everything  and  everybody.  He 
had  mentioned  Shelmetsof  just  after  Muriel  had 
heard  of  him  from  Anne. 

"How  strange  I  Miss  Creston  was  talking  to 
me  about  him  only  a  few  days  ago.  I'd  never 
heard  of  him  before,  and  now  he  crops  up  again.** 


Q6      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"Often  happens,  that,  doesn't  it?"  said  Tony 
Hilford,  "like  'flu.  You  sidestep  it  for  ever  so 
long,  and  then  suddenly  the  air  is  full  of  microbes 
and  down  you  go.  The  Shelmetsof  microbe  is 
pretty  active  just  now.  He's  conducting  a  lot. 
Queer  bird!  D'you  want  to  meet  him?  Come 
down  on  Sunday.  He  and  his  wife  are  week- 
ending with  my  father." 

So  on  a  delicious  spring  morning,  Muriel  and 
Anne  took  an  early  train,  got  out  at  a  small  sta- 
tion and  walked  over  the  Downs,  through  hedges 
starred  with  white-thorn,  past  copses  where  the 
primroses  shone  in  the  dappling  sunshine,  and 
under  chestnuts  which  were  just  unfolding  their 
sticky  baby-finger  buds. 

"What  a  world!"  Muriel  cried,  almost  dancing 
with  delight  and  exuberance  of  energy.  "Isn't 
it  gorgeous,  Anne?  Shout,  sing,  let's  race  to  the 
corner.    Well,  I  shall  race  alone." 

At  the  corner  she  waited,  panting.  Anne,  as 
she  came  up,  said,  with  affectionate  envy: 

"I  wish  I  had  your  spirits,  my  dear.  I'm 
enjoying  it  all  right,  but  the  enjoyment  doesn't 
pour  out  of  me.  I  feel  something  holding  me 
back." 

"It's  all  your  learning.  I  wish  I  had  some 
of  it  and  not  quite  so  much  rude  health." 

"You  needn't  wish  that.  It's  vitahty  that  gets 
people  on  in  the  world.  Look  at  the  men  who 
succeed,  women  too — they  aren't  the  highly  in- 
tellectual or  even  the  highly  intelligent,  they 
aren't  the  deep  thinkers  or  the  fine  idealists. 
They're  just  the  ones  with  the  most  vigour,  the 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       67 

most  activity;  they're  the  ones  who  are  most 
ahve." 

"Whose  brains  are  most  ahve,  you  mean. 
That's  you.  My  activity  is  mostly  in  my  feet. 
I've  done  next  to  no  work  that's  any  good  lately. 
The  sun  and  the  green  everywhere  make  me  rest- 
less.   I  want  a  holiday,  I  think." 

The  poet  welcomed  the  girls  with  nervous  kind- 
liness. His  son  led  them  into  the  garden,  one 
of  the  most  attractive  gardens  they  had  either  of 
them  ever  seen. 

"My  father  says  these  are  his  best  poems," 
the  boy  told  them,  waving  a  hand  at  the  rock- 
plants  which  made  an  exquisite  symphony  of 
colour,  and  the  iris  borders  and  the  dehcious 
vistas  of  daffodils,  jonquils,  narcissi. 

When  they  started  to  catch  their  evening  train, 
they  were  laden  with  these;  in  their  minds,  too, 
was  heavy  store  of  fresh  material  for  thought. 

The  composer  had  talked  half  through  the  af- 
ternoon, and  proposed  to  Muriel  to  walk  with 
him  for  the  other  half.  His  wife  had  prevented 
that. 

"Yegor  Boris'itch,"  she  said  severely,  "the 
yoimg  lady  is  of  course  tired  already  of  hearing 
your  theories.  Besides,  you  have  many  letters 
to  write.    So,  miss,  excuse,  please." 

And  she  swept  him  away  to  their  own  room. 

"What  did  you  make  of  it?"  asked  Anne,  as 
they  walked  back. 

"I  think  I  see  what  he's  driving  at.  Russia 
is  going  to  start  a  new  civilisation  upon  the 
notion  that  we  all  ought  to  follow  our  impulses 


68      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

and  not  try  to  discipline  ourselves.  It  rather 
takes  one's  breath  away." 

"To  change  our  principle  'that  whatever  we 
want  to  do  and  like  doing  must  be  wrong'  into 
the  opposite,  'that  if  we  want  to  do  a  thing,  there- 
fore it  must  be  right,'  "  Anne  mused. 

"I  should  like  to  have  heard  still  more.  I 
wish  his  wife  hadn't  spirited  him  off." 

"It  was  in  your  interest,"  said  Anne  grimly. 

"How?" 

"She  told  me  she  didn't  want  him  to  make  love 
to  an  Enghsh  girl.  When  he's  writing  an  opera 
or  a  ballet,  he  has  to  fall  in  love.  She's  quite 
used  to  it,  and  doesn't  seem  to  mind." 

"She  told  you  that?"  asked  Mm-iel  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"Yes;  told  me  as  if  it  weren't  anything  un- 
usual. She  said  quite  seriously:  'Our  living  de- 
pends upon  Yegor  Boris'itch  being  able  to 
compose,  and  he  can't  compose  unless  he's  in 
love!" 

"Pretty  calm,"  agreed  Muriel.  "I  suppose 
she  didn't  think  it  possible  he  could  have  con- 
tinued being  in  love  with  her." 

"She  explained  that.  She  said  he  wrote  that 
famous  thing  they  did  last  year  at  Covent  Gar- 
den when  he  was  in  love  with  her.  That  was  as 
much  as  she  could  expect,  she  seemed  to  think. 
She's  evidently  tremendously  proud  of  it.  The 
only  line  she  drew  was  at  his  falling  in  love  with 
an  English  girl." 

"It  would  have  been  an  experience,  wouldn't 
it?"  Muriel  reflected.     "Why  did  she  object?" 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       69 

"She  said:  *You  English  are  so  difficult.  You 
make  such  fusses.'  A  friend  had  told  her  that 
if  any  scandal  about  him  got  about,  people 
wouldn't  listen  to  his  music." 

"I  think  that's  quite  hkely." 

"So  you  see,  it  isn't  only  theory.  I  was  inter- 
ested in  his  ideas,  rather  hked  them,  but  I  think 
it's  a  rotten  way  to  behave." 

That,  Muriel  said  to  herself,  was  a  sign  of 
Anne's  defective  vitahty.  She  wasn't  altogether 
sure  herself  of  the  soundness  of  the  Shelmetsof 
doctrine.  She  wanted  to  think  it  over.  But  she 
felt  sm-e  that  if  she  accepted  it  as  theory,  she 
would  not  let  conventional  morahty  make  her 
shrink  from  the  practice  of  it. 

*'Do  you  suppose  all  Russians  are  like  that?'* 
she  asked. 

"Not  all,  but  their  ideas  are  very  different 
from  ours." 

"Good  thing  tool"  Muriel  commented.  "We 
want  a  little  more  variety  in  the  world." 


CHAPTER  VI 


Muriel  never  forgot  that  spring  day  and  the 
delight  that  she  felt  in  it,  the  lightness  of  heart 
and  springiness  of  limb,  which  made  her  race 
down  the  road,  the  adventurous  mood  which 
gave  her  the  conviction  that,  whatever  happened 
to  her,  she  would  always  find  life  stimulating  and 
enjoyable.  She  never  forgot  it,  because  that  was 
the  last  day  of  her  life  on  which  she  was  entirely 
free  from  care,  the  last  day  which  allowed  her 
to  luxuriate  in  the  irresponsibility,  the  complete 
satisfaction  of  all  instincts,  the  live-for-the-mo- 
ment  mood,  of  youth. 

Three  days  later  she  saw,  as  she  sat  down  to 
breakfast,  a  letter  from  Aunt  Sybilla.  It  stirred 
no  emotion.  Certainly,  Aunt  Sybilla  did  not 
write  often,  but  when  she  did  she  seldom  had 
anything  to  say.  Probably  this  was  to  inquire 
why  Muriel  had  not  been  down  to  her  "home" 
for  so  many  weeks.  Muriel  left  it  while  she 
looked  through  a  newspaper,  then  took  it  up 
without  interest,  tore  the  envelope,  and  read  an 
announcement  which  changed  the  whole  coiu*se 
of  her  life. 

"I  have  bad  news  for  you  and  Douglas,"  Aunt 
Sybilla  wrote.  "In  response  to  a  request  from 
Mr.  Vines,  I  went  to  see  him  yesterday,  and  he 
informed  me  that  one  of  the  companies  in  which 

70 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE      71 

your  father  invested  his  money  was  on  the  point 
of  going  into  liquidation.  That  means  the  money 
invested  is  lost.  As  the  sum  was  a  large  one, 
this  reduces  by  about  one-half  the  income  derived 
by  you  and  your  brothers  and  sisters  from  your 
father's  estate.  We  must,  as  soon  as  possible, 
decide  what  is  to  be  done.  You  and  Douglas  had 
better  come  down  on  Saturday  morning  and  meet 
me  at  Mr.  Vine's  office.  He  will  give  you  a  more 
exact  account  of  your  monetary  position." 

Muriel  read  with  a  fluttering  heart.  She  saw 
at  once  what  this  threatened.  Her  pleasant  ex- 
istence in  London,  her  studying  for  the  Bar,  her 
bright  hopes  of  an  interesting  and  prosperous 
career  were  to  be  cut  short.  All  that  she  cared 
for  must  be  given  up.  She  looked  across  at 
Douglas.  He  was  munching  contentedly  and 
looking  at  the  football  news.  She  had  to  steady 
her  voice  by  coughing  several  times  before  she 
could  trust  herself  to  say: 

*'Here,  Duggy,  you'd  better  read  this:  it's  a 
bombshell.    How  pleased  Aunt  Sybilla  must  be!" 

Douglas  read  it,  frowning. 

"Just  my  luck,"  he  said  angrily,  as  he  threw 
it  back.  "Another  six  months  and  I'd  have  got 
through." 

"What  about  my  luck?  I'm  not  half-way 
through  yet.    It  means  the  end  for  me." 

"For  both  of  us,  I  should  say." 

"I  can't  wait  till  Saturday.  I  shall  go  down 
and  see  Vines  to-day.  I'd  rather  see  him  with- 
out Aunt  Sybilla.  He  may  be  able  to  give  us 
some  advice." 


72      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

In  movement  Muriel  found  a  certain  relief. 
She  was  also  glad  that  it  rained.  Sunshine  would 
have  mocked  her,  she  felt.  In  the  train  she  pre- 
tended to  herself  that  she  was  going  back  to  live 
with  Aunt  Sybilla  and  the  rest  of  the  family. 
The  very  thought  of  this  was  so  repugnant  that 
she  then  and  there  made  a  vow  that  she  would 
never  do  it.  She  could  put  together  no  alterna- 
tive plan.  She  could  not  hit  upon  any  likely 
means  by  which  she  could  support  herself.  But 
she  made  up  her  mind  firmly  about  one  thing: 
she  would  not  go  back  "home." 

The  lawyer  was  sympathetic,  almost  apolo- 
getic. He  felt  that  he  ought  to  have  known  the 
business  was  shaky.  He  ought  to  have  advised 
a  change  of  investment  before  it  was  too  late. 
This  he  could  not,  of  course,  admit,  but  it  wor- 
ried him.  It  made  him  inclined  to  be  impatient 
with  Muriel  for  wanting  to  know  more,  but  he 
fought  down  this  inclination  as  unworthy  of  a 
just  man ;  he  explained  the  disaster  to  her  with  an 
even  tender  solicitude. 

The  position  was  as  Aunt  Sybilla  had  stated 
it.    Half  the  family  income  had  been  swept  away. 

"Then  we  can't  go  on  having  our  money, 
Douglas  and  I,"  Muriel  said,  going  straight  to 
the  point,  after  she  had  listened  without  inter- 
ruption to  an  oft-told  tale — flourishing  business, 
formation  of  company,  vendor's  loss  of  interest 
in  it,  incompetent  directors,  careless  management, 
frantic  efforts  to  recover  position,  utter  ruin. 
She  could  not  grasp  the  meaning  of  the  whole  of 
what  she  had  heard,  but  she  knew  that  the  money 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE      73 

was  gone,  and  that  there  was  no  hope  of  getting 
any  of  it  back. 

"I'm  afraid  not,  my  dear,"  the  lawyer  an- 
swered, drawing  squares  on  the  blotting-paper 
before  him.  "You  see,"  he  went  on,  looking  up 
at  her,  "three  hundred  out  of  five  hundred  would 
leave  only  two  hundred.  The  rest  of  the  family 
couldn't  be  supported  on  that." 

"No,  of  course  not,"  agreed  Muriel  miserably, 
yet  telling  herself  that  she  must  "keep  a  stiff 
upper  hp." 

"Hard  on  you,  very  hard,"  he  murmured,  and 
again  reproached  himself  for  lack  of  vigilance. 
"How  were  you  getting  on  with  your  legal 
studies?" 

"Not  too  badly.  I'd  passed  in  Roman  law. 
I  think  I  should  have  got  through  the  rest  all 
right." 

"Now  I  suppose  you  will  live  at  home  and " 

"No,"  Muriel  said,  so  forcibly  that  he  raised 
his  eyebrows,  even  looked,  she  thought,  a  little 
alarmed.  "Whatever  I  do,  I  shan't  do  that.  I 
made  up  my  mind  in  the  train." 

"I  see.  .  .  .  Well,  of  course,  you  are  of  an 
age  to  decide  for  yourself.  But  I  should  have 
thought,  with  a  season  ticket,  going  up  and  down 
every  day,  you  could  have  managed  to  pursue 
your  studies.  Many  do  so,  I  beheve.  How- 
ever  " 

The  idea  came  to  Muriel  as  a  flash  of  light- 
ning reveals  to  a  benighted  traveller  some  un- 
suspected path.  This  she  must  consider.  It 
might  cause  her  to  alter  her  mind. 


74      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  she  said  reflec- 
tively. "It  might  be  possible.  I  wonder.  .  .  . 
Anyway,  thank  you  very  much.  I  must  just  run 
and  see  them  before  I  go  back  to  London.  Aw- 
fully good  of  you  to  let  me  take  up  your  time. 
Good-bye." 

He  was  touched  by  her  pluck,  by  the  self- 
control  which  saved  her  from  futile  lamenting 
over  the  hardship  that  had  come  upon  her. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said  warmly.  "You've  taken 
it  well,  very  well.  It's  a  nasty  knock.  You're 
bearing  it  splendidly." 

§ii 

Aunt  Sybilla  did  not  share  Vines's  opinion. 
She  found  fault  with  her  niece  for  "rushing  down 
at  once  to  see  if  I  hadn't  m-misinformed  you." 
The  suggestion  which  Muriel  threw  out  as  to 
going  up  to  London  every  day  she  denounced  as 
selfish  and  unkind. 

"Do  you  reahse  how  little  five  hundred  pounds 
a  year  is  in  these  days?  Why,  it's  poverty.  It 
would  be  starvation  for  a  family  like  this  if  it 
weren't  for  my  little  income.  We  oughtn't  to 
stay  in  this  house,  of  course,  and  we  couldn't  but 
for  my  paying  rates  and  taxes.  Just  as  well  my 
brother  bought  it." 

Muriel  had  often  noticed  that  whenever  Aunt 
Sybilla  praised  the  late  Mr.  Oversedge  she  called 
him  "my  brother,"  while  she  spoke  of  him  point- 
edly as  "your  father"  when  she  alluded  to  his 
mistakes  or  faults.    This  had  in  the  past  amused 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       75 

Muriel;  so  long  as  she  only  saw  her  aunt  at 
intervals,  and  for  a  day  or  two  at  a  time,  she 
could  regard  her  as  an  amusing  spectacle.  Now 
she  suddenly  understood  what  it  would  mean  to 
live  with  her  all  through  the  weeks,  all  through 
the  months,  all  through  the  years. 

"Have  you  thought  what  a  season-ticket  would 
cost?  Twenty  pounds,  I  dare  say.  And  then  all 
that  you'd  have  to  spend  in  London — lunches  and 
the  rest  of  it.  It  would  be  robbing  your  brothers 
and  sisters.  You  can't  1-look  at  it  any  other 
way." 

"Very  well,  I  won't  say  any  more  about  it," 
said  Muriel  cheerfully,  thinking  that  she  was 
lucky  her  proposal  had  been  so  instantly  and  de- 
cisively turned  down. 

"You'll  come  home  and  help  me  with  the  chil- 
dren and  with  the  house;  we  can't  keep  three 
servants  now,  or  two  even.  It's  been  hard  work 
and  thankless  work  for  me  all  this  time.  Now 
you'll  do  your  share,  as  you  ought  to  have  done 
from  the  first." 

"I'm  afraid  not,  Aunt  SybiUa,"  Muriel  replied. 

"You  needn't  think  you're  going  to  live  here 
and  do  nothing.  I  don't  suppose  you'll  be  much 
use  at  first,  but  you'll  learn  in  time.  You  needn't 
think " 

"No,  I  don't  think.  I've  no  intention  of  shirk- 
ing," Muriel  said  quietly.  "I'm  not  coming  to 
live  here  at  all." 

Aunt  Sybilla  looked  hard  at  her,  as  if  she  had 
said  she  meant  to  live  in  the  moon,  or  had  an- 
nounced that  she  purposed  to  give  up  breathing. 


76      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"Oh,  indeed!"  she  said.  "Might  I  ask  where 
you  are  going  to  live,  then?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  haven't  thought  yet,"  Muriel 
faltered. 

Somehow  Aunt  SyhiUa's  hardness  did  not 
to-day  make  her  feel  hard  too.  It  usually  petri- 
fied her,  turned  her  heart  to  granite,  called  forth 
all  the  combativeness  in  her  spirit.  Now  she 
felt  lonely  and  forlorn.  She  experienced  a  sensa- 
tion to  which  she  had  been  a  stranger  for  years  ;^ 
she  wanted  to  cry,  to  put  her  head  down  and  sob 
away  the  burden  on  her  heart. 

If  only  Mims  were  in  the  corner  of  the  Ches- 
terfield before  the  drawing-room  fire ;  if  only  she 
could  take  her  troubles  there  I  Mims  who  under- 
stood so  well,  Mims  who  coaxed  your  grievances 
out  of  you,  and  made  them  seem  so  unimportant, 
and  quickly  had  you  laughing,  and  chatting  gaily, 
and  singing  with  her  some  absurd  interminable 
nonsense-song  I 

The  memory  for  a  moment  filled  Muriel  with 
an  agony  of  regret  and  self-pity.  She  could 
not  stay  the  tears  which  suddenly  clouded  her 
sight. 

Aunt  Sybilla  did  not  see  well  enough  at  close 
range  to  discover  the  disturbance  of  her  niece's 
emotion,  but  she  could  feel  the  tension  of  some 
spiritual  stress.  She  was  even  surprised  out  of 
her  usual  indifference  by  Muriel's  faltering  tone, 
so  unHke  her  ordinary  assured  manner  of  speech. 
In  that  hour  the  two  women  were  nearer  to  an 
understanding  of  each  other,  nearer  to  friendly 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       77 

relations,  than  they  ever  had  been  before  or  ever 
were  after. 

To  those  dependent  upon  her  Aunt  Sybilla 
was  kind  and  generous ;  upon  anyone  who  asked 
for  her  sympathy  and  affection  she  was  ready  to 
confer  them.  Had  Muriel  even  pulled  out  her 
handkerchief,  the  barrier  between  them  would 
have  been  down,  the  ice  around  their  hearts  would 
have  thawed.  But  Muriel  held  her  head  up  and 
let  the  tears  run  down  her  cold  cheeks,  and  no 
more  followed.  The  chance  had  gone  by;  it  did 
not  present  itself  again. 

The  effort  to  master  her  emotion  made  Muriel's 
voice  sound  all  the  harder  when  she  said  casually: 

"I  must  get  something  to  do,  some  employ- 
ment." 

Secretly  Aunt  Sybilla  was  relieved  that  the 
girl  did  not  intend  to  join  the  family  party,  but 
she  could  not  resist  employing  her  refusal  as  a 
weapon  against  her. 

"You  wouldn't  call  looking  after  your  broth- 
ers and  sisters  employment,  I  suppose." 

"I  want  to  live  in  London.  I  can  have  my 
share  of  the  money  we  have  left,  can't  I?  If 
we  all  share  equally,  there'll  be  fifty  pounds 
each." 

"You  can  talk  to  Mr.  Vines  about  that,"  said 
Aunt  Sybilla  curtly. 

Muriel  wished  she  had  talked  to  him  about 
it  already.  She  might  have  induced  him  to  de- 
cide in  her  favour  at  once.  Now  Aunt  Sybilla 
might  try  to  set  him  against  any  division  of  the 
family  income. 


78      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

Suddenly  she  thought  there  was  just  time  to 
catch  him  before  he  left  his  office.  She  hastily 
kissed  the  eight  children,  shook  hands  coldly  with 
her  aunt,  murmuring  that  she  must  catch  a  train, 
and  returned  as  fast  as  she  could  to  the  town. 

§  iii 

Through  the  heavy  days  which  followed  Muriel 
learned  many  lessons.  She  used  to  run  over  some 
of  them  daily  as  a  tonic  to  her  self-control. 

"This  has  happened  to  loads  of  other  people." 

"Anyway  I've  had  a  good  time  up  to  now." 

"Pitying  yourself  weakens  yom:  fibre,  makes 
you  flabby." 

"If  other  girls  can  keep  themselves,  I  suppose 
I  can." 

"No  use  expecting  things  to  be  done  for  you. 
If  you  can't  stand  on  your  own  feet,  go  into 
hospital." 

"I'm  lucky  to  have  had  some  decent  schooling." 

"After  all " 

It  was  this  last  prop  to  her  courage  which 
served  her  best.  "After  all"  represented  her 
reliance  on  her  youth  and  strength  and  spirit. 
It  was  instinctive;  the  others  were  the  fruit  of 
reason,  were  "sickhed  o'er  with  the  pale  cast 
of  thought."  Still,  they  helped  to  stiffen  her 
resolve ;  she  used  them  deliberately  for  that  pur- 
pose; she  attributed  to  them  a  good  deal  of  the 
confidence  which  she  really  drew  from  her  vigor- 
ous health  and  the  strong  flow  of  her  life-current. 

"I've  got  nothing  but  reason  to  rely  on,"  she 
told  herself  rather  proudly  than  otherwise.    "I 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE      79 

suppose  the  old-fashioned  sort  of  woman  would 
say:  'This  is  sent  me  for  my  good.'  That's  the 
sort  of  thing  I  remember  in  the  books  I  read 
when  I  was  a  kid.  But  I  don't  believe  that  would 
make  me  bear  it  any  better." 

"Besides,"  said  Anne,  when  Muriel  talked  to 
her  in  this  strain  one  evening,  "it  would  take 
all  the  stuffing  out  of  the  effort  to  get  over  bad 
luck.  The  old-fashioned  woman  would  call  it 
a  brick  dropped  on  her  head  on  purpose.  You 
see,  if  God  dropped  that  one  brick.  He  might 
have  others,  and  what  would  be  the  good  of 
anyfink? — why,  nuffink." 

"Yes,"  Muriel  reflected  aloud,  with  her  eyes 
on  the  fading  sunset  colours  in  a  clear,  tranquil 
sky,  "reason  and  religion  can't  be  worked  to- 
gether. It  must  be  one  or  the  other.  That's 
where  the  Catholics  score.  Did  you  ever  wish 
you  were  one? — or  had  some  sort  of  belief?" 

"Oh  yes,  I've  had  periods  of  wishing  it.  Not 
that  I  think  it  makes  people  any  happier  really." 

"I'm  sure  it  doesn't.  I've  never  had  any  incli- 
nation that  way.  Not  that  I'm  against  it,"  she 
added  magnanimously.  "Anyone  who's  been 
brought  up  in  it  and  had  it  dinged  into  them,  so 
that  it's  become  a  part  of  their  life,  naturally 
keeps  it  up.  I  dare  say  they  get  some  satisfac- 
tion out  of  it.  But  our  generation  didn't  seem  to 
take  to  it,  however  much  dinging  there  was." 

"No.  Of  course  in  the  country.  .  .  but  even 
there,"  Anne  said,  "it  isn't  what  it  used  to  be. 
I'm  not  sure  it  isn't  a  pity,  you  know." 

"You  are  a  fearful  old  humbug,"  Muriel  de- 


80      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

clared.  "You're  always  pretending  you  wish  we 
were  back  in  the  Middle  Ages." 

"I  beheve  we  should  be  better  off  in  some 
ways." 

"You  don't  believe  anything  of  the  kind.  It's 
just  an  idea  that  comes  to  you  when  you're  sick 
of  exams.  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  find  I  can  leave  my 
exams,  as  long  as  I  like,  so  I  shan't  give  up 
hope  of  being  'called'  some  day.  But  in  the 
meantime  I've  got  to  find  some  way  of  earning 
my  daily  bread." 

The  fifty  pounds  a  year  had  been  conceded 
by  Mr.  Vines.  Douglas  was  to  have  his  share 
also,  but  he  could  no  longer  club  together  with 
his  sister.  He  had  found  a  job  at  once  in  the 
north  of  England  with  a  big  engineering  com- 
pany, which  had,  by  a  chance  lucky  for  him, 
written  to  the  head  of  his  department  just  before 
the  bad  news  came  from  Aunt  Sybilla  asking  if 
there  was  any  likely  young  man  who  could  be 
recommended  for  a  free  apprenticeship.  So 
brother  and  sister  were  to  sell  most  of  their  furni- 
ture, and  Muriel  was  to  keep  one  room  only  in 
Mrs.  Syrom's  house.  Already  she  was  looking 
about  for  that  vague  "something  to  do." 

Two  months  later,  in  the  middle  of  summer, 
she  was  still  unemployed.  Yet,  on  the  whole, 
she  had,  so  far,  nothing  much  to  complain  of. 
The  sale  of  the  furniture  gave  her  a  lump  sum 
on  which  she  could  live  for  a  time.  She  had 
occupied  herself  by  continuing  to  read  law, 
though  not  with  quite  the  same  energy  as  before. 
Her  subscription  to  a  lawn  tennis  club  had  for- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE      81 

tunately  been  paid  in  the  early  spring,  when  she 
was  elected.  It  was  only  when  she  looked  ahead 
that  she  had  a  slightly  hollow  feeling  in  the  pit 
of  her  stomach. 

She  had,  it  was  true,  a  definite  promise  of  work 
as  soon  as  a  friend  of  the  captain  of  her  mess 
should  be  "called."  The  captain  did  not  mean  to 
practise  herself,  but  her  friend  was  one  of  the 
most  lively  and  promising  of  all  the  women  law 
students.  She  had  said  one  day  that  she  thought 
a  woman  barrister  ought  to  have  a  woman  as 
clerk.  At  once  Muriel's  captain  made  the  sug- 
gestion that  a  clerk  would  be  all  the  better  for 
law  training,  even  though  it  had  been  cut  short, 
and  had  asked  that  Muriel,  if  she  fancied  the  job, 
should  have  it  when  the  time  came.  It  was  not 
possible,  however,  that  this  time  should  come  until 
after  Christmas.  In  the  meantime  there  seemed 
to  be  no  occupation  for  which  a  slight  acquaint- 
ance with  law  might  serve  to  qualify  a  young 
woman  anxious  and  able  to  work. 

It  was  Anthony  Hilford,  the  boy  with  the 
merry  eyes,  who  helped  her  at  last  to  employ- 
ment. He  was  announced  one  evening  early  in 
July  just  as  Muriel  and  Anne  were  beginning  a 
sketchy  meal.    Mrs.  Syrom  tapped. 

"A  gentleman,  miss.  He  says  it's  important. 
Shall  I  keep  him  downstairs  till  you've  finished?" 

"What  sort  of  a  gentleman,  Mrs.  Syrom?" 

"The  usual,  miss.  Youngish.  Name  of  Hil- 
ford." 

"Tony!"  cried  the  two  girls  together,  and,  hear- 
ing their  cry,  the  young  man  replied  by  running 


82      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

up  the  stairs  from  the  hall,  calling  out:  "May 
I  come  in?" 

"Yes,  come  in,"  Muriel  said  at  the  door. 
"You're  just  in  time  for  a  sardine-tail.  Mrs. 
Syrom  said  *a  gentleman.*  How  deceptive  ap- 
pearances are!    We  little  thought  it  was  you." 

"How  do,  Tony?"  Anne  greeted  him,  and  with 
a  glance  at  Muriel  wondered  whether  such  visits 
were  frequent. 

"Awfully  sorry  to  butt  in.  No,  thanks,  I  won't 
have  anything;  really;  well,  just  a  greengage 
or  two,  may  I?  I've  been  looking  about  for  you 
all  day,"  he  went  on,  to  Muriel.  "I've  heard  of 
something  that  might  suit  you." 

"A  job?  Tony,  how  splendid  of  you  I  What 
is  it?" 

"Well,  I  know  the  man  who  does  the  answers 
to  Legal  Queries  in  that  paper,  Woman's  Sphere. 
At  least  he  doesn't  actually  do  them.  He's  re- 
sponsible for  them ;  looks  them  over,  sees  they're 
all  right,  you  know." 

Here  Tony  gave  all  his  mind  to  peeling  a 
greengage.  The  two  girls  watched  him  for  a 
few  moments,  exchanged  a  glance  of  humorous 
despair.  Then  Muriel  said:  "Please,  Tony,  go 
on.    I'm  simply  mad  to  hear." 

"Oh  yes,  sorry.  Well,  the  man  who  actually 
did  the  answers  has  got  a  post  in  the  West  Indies, 
chief  justice  or  something.  He's  had  to  stop 
suddenly,  and  Tanstead,  the  man  whose  name  ap- 
pears, you  know,  wants  someone  awfully  badly 
at  once.  So  I  suggested  you.  Could  you  go 
and  see  him  first  thing  to-morrow  morning?" 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       83 

Muriel  went  to  bed  that  night  with  certainty 
in  her  mind  that  she  would  not  be  considered 
capable  of  undertaking  what  seemed  to  her  so 
serious  a  task.  But  the  next  night  she  sank  to 
sleep  with  a  thankful  heart.  Tanstead  was 
moved  to  engage  her,  not  by  sympathy,  but  be- 
cause she  would  do  the  work  cheaply. 

"It's  simple  enough.  Common-sense  answerii 
most  of  'em.  I  s'pose  you  can  write  so  as  to 
make  yourself  clear.  Very  well,  then.  Twenty- 
five  shillings  a  week,  and  my  clerk  will  start 
sending  the  queries  to  you  to-morrow.  That's  all 
right.    Good-bye." 

So  she  more  than  doubled  her  income  and  felt 
secure. 


CHAPTER  VII 


Until  Muriel  was  twenty-one  no  man  had  seri- 
ously made  love  to  her. 

She  had  had  schoolgirl  fancies.  Once  she  was 
consumed  by  devotion  to  a  man  her  father  knew 
shghtly,  a  man  almost  her  father's  age,  because 
he  had  a  clear-cut  profile  and  greyish  hair  with 
a  wave  in  it,  and  talked  to  her  as  one  human  being 
to  another;  did  not  treat  her  jocosely  and  idiot- 
ically as  a  little  girl.  She  had  en j  oyed  flirtations ; 
she  had  gone  through  the  usual  harmless  adven- 
tures, secret  meetings,  stolen  kisses  (though  she 
could  not  see  what  there  was  in  kissing  to  enjoy) . 
But  she  thought  of  love  neither  as  an  agreeable 
pastime  nor  as  the  supreme  gift  of  human  exist- 
ence. If  she  had  been  compelled  to  define  her 
attitude  towards  it,  she  would  have  said  that  "peo- 
ple made  too  much  fuss  about  it  and  as  a  rule  it 
was  rather  silly." 

Now  within  a  few  weeks  she  had  two  experi- 
ences which  had  the  effect  of  strengthening  those 
opinions  of  hers. 

Every  Tuesday  afternoon  she  took  to  Tan- 
stead's  chambers  her  answers  to  the  legal  puzzles 
propounded  by  the  readers  of  Woman's  Sphere. 
She  seldom  found  them  difficult. 

Purely  legal  points  she  submitted  to  Tanstead; 

84 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       85 

these  were  rare.  Most  of  the  puzzled  querists 
needed  no  more  than  simple,  common-sense  ad- 
vice, as  Tanstead  had  told  her.  At  first  he  looked 
hurriedly  over  what  she  had  written,  seemed  to 
be  ill-at-ease,  as  if  he  were  a  little  bit  afraid  of 
her,  got  rid  of  her  awkwardly  with  a  "Yes,  yes, 
yes,  that's  all  right.  I'll  just  touch  them  up  a 
bit."  But  Muriel  noticed  that  he  scarcely  ever 
altered  at  all. 

He  was  a  tall  man  with  a  bulky  figure  for  his 
thirty- two  years.  His  hair  was  hke  a  wig;  both 
the  colour,  a  glossy  chestnut,  and  the  luxuriant 
curling  growth  of  it  over  his  ears  and  on  his  neck 
made  most  people  think,  when  they  saw  him  for 
the  first  time,  that  it  was  a  wig.  But  the  wearers 
of  wigs  can  always  be  detected  by  their  lack  of 
eyebrows,  whereas  Tanstead's  eyebrows  were 
bushy  and  thrust  themselves  out  so  aggressively 
that  when  he  frowned  they  almost  concealed  his 
eyes. 

His  voice  had  a  persuasive  roll  in  it  which 
was  valuable  with  juries,  especially  juries  on 
which  women  served.  He  had  the  priceless 
knack  of  being  able  to  lay  a  case  before  them  as 
if  he  had  no  interest  in  their  verdict.  He  did 
not  so  much  plead  or  argue  as  sum  up  in  his 
client's  favour.  He  was  always  urbane  to  wit- 
nesses, a  little  overdid  his  politeness  perhaps, 
but  left  again  on  the  jury's  mind  the  impression 
that  his  only  desire  was  to  draw  out  all  the  facts 
without  causing  discomfort  and  leave  them  to 
speak  for  themselves  in  support  of  his  client's 
case.     His  ambition  was  to  sit  on  the  Bench 


86      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

before  he  was  fifty;  there  seemed  to  be  no  doubt 
that  it  would  be  gratified. 

As  he  grew  easier  in  manner  with  Muriel  he 
would  discuss  some  of  the  problems  put  forward; 
he  would  joke  about  the  perplexities  of  a  land- 
lady who  could  not  get  rid  of  lodgers  or  a  wife 
who  felt  sure  her  husband  was  being  cheated  by 
book-makers.  One  day  he  gave  special  atten- 
tion to  some  matter  in  which  Muriel  had  seen  no 
complexity  at  all.  He  laboured  the  legal  aspect 
of  it.    At  last  he  said : 

"Look  here,  I  should  like  to  discuss  this. 
Haven't  time  now.  Won't  you  dine  with  me? 
No  frocks  or  frills.  Just  as  you  are.  I  won't 
change  either.  Go  and  read  for  a  bit  in  the 
library.    I'll  call  in  there  for  you,  eh ?" 

Muriel  was  surprised,  but  not  perturbed.  She 
decided  at  once  to  accept  the  invitation,  unex- 
pected though  it  was.  She  didn't  want  to  offend 
him  by  refusing,  and  she  felt  that  it  would  be 
"rather  fun,"  a  change,  at  any  rate,  from  "sar- 
dine-tails" or  Mrs.  Syrom's  wholesome  but  unin- 
teresting Irish  stew. 

§  ii 

They  dined  at  an  unpretentious  restaurant, 
and  they  dined  solidly. 

"I  like  real  food,  don't  you?"  he  said.  "Those 
places  where  they  give  you  a  bad  imitation  of  a 
five-course  dinner  are  no  use  to  me.  They  gen- 
erally keep  a  band  to  play  so  loudly  that  most 
people  don't  notice  they  aren't  really  getting 
anything  to  eat,  like  a  conjurer  keeping  up  a 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       87 

continual  chatter  to  prevent  the  spectators  from 
seeing  how  he  humbugs  them." 

"I  like  ahnost  any  place,"  Muriel  said.  "I'm 
pretty  new  to  it  all,  you  see." 

"Good  thing  to  begin  young.  You  get  through 
it  all  the  sooner." 

Muriel  looked  at  him  doubtfully. 

"Begin  your  experience  of  restaurants  and 
theatres  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,"  he  explained. 
"You  find  out  there  isn't  much  in  that  kind  of 
life  and  you're  glad  to  settle  down." 

"I  hope  I  shan't  ever  want  to  do  that,"  Muriel 
said.    "It  sounds  so  stuffy." 

"But  don't  you  think  that  home  is  the  only 
thing  that's  really  satisfying?" 

"I've  never  tried  it,"  Muriel  replied,  smiling. 
"Have  you?" 

"I've  never  had  a  home  of  my  own.  But  I've 
always  had  one  in  my  thoughts.  I  don't  believe 
it's  possible  to  do  any  real  good  work  without 
one." 

"Do  you  live  in  your  chambers?" 

"No;  I've  got  a  tiny  flat,  two  rooms  and  a 
bath,  and  I  dine  at  my  club  generally,  and  read 
there  or  play  billiards  until  I  go  back  to  work. 
That's  no  way  to  hve." 

"I  wonder  men  don't  live  together  more.'* 

"You  wouldn't  if  you  knew  more  about  men." 

Muriel  laughed. 

"My  brother  and  I  lived  together  for  a  year 
and  a  half.    I  know  more  than  you  think." 

"A  man  behaves  differently  to  a  woman." 

"Even  if  she's  his  sister?" 


88      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"Yes,  even  to  his  sister,  I  fancy.  They're 
perfectly  awful  when  they  live  with  other  men." 

"Women  are  much  the  same  as  men.  How 
is  it  they  manage  to  live  together  all  right? 
Most  of  them  prefer  it  to  living  alone." 

"They  aren't  so  selfish  or  so  fussy  as  men — I 
suppose;  they  don't  get  on  each  other's  nerves 
the  way  men  do.  A  man  is  hardly  ever  interested 
in  anything  but  his  own  concerns.  He  doesn't 
want  to  hear  about  anyone  else's." 

"You  have  a  higher  opinion  of  women  than 
most  men,"  said  Muriel  dryly. 

"I  have  a  very  high  opinion  of  them." 

"Have  you  known  many?" 

"I  think  you're  laughing  at  me,  aren't  you?" 

There  was  an  almost  pathetic  protest  in  his 
tone. 

"Oh  no,"  returned  Muriel  demurely;  "what 
makes  you  think  that?  But,  by  the  way,"  she 
went  on,  "you  wanted  to  talk  about  that  case, 
didn't  you?" 

"I  didn't  really.  I  made  that  an  excuse.  You 
don't  mind,  do  you?" 

"Why  did  you  think  an  excuse  was  necessary? 
You  wouldn't  have  made  up  any  excuse  if  you 
wanted  a  man  to  dine  with  you." 

"No,  only " 

"Only  you  have  old-fashioned  ideas  about 
women." 

This  would  have  soimded  severe  if  Muriel's 
eyes  had  not  smiled. 

"Ah,  you  don't  mind." 

There  was  an  immense  relief  in  his  voice. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       89 

"I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  what  we've 
been  talking  about.  I'm  fearfully  keen  on  hav- 
ing a  home." 

Muriel  saw  suddenly  what  was  coming.  The 
instinct  of  the  woman  to  flee  when  man  pursueth 
made  her  murmur : 

"But  what  has  that  to  do  with  me?" 

Directly  she  had  said  this  she  regretted  it. 
It  sounded  to  her  like  the  regular  question  to 
be  asked  at  such  a  moment. 

"It  may  have  a  great  deal  to  do  with  you.  I 
want  it  to  have." 

They  were  almost  the  last  in  the  restaurant. 
He  leaned  over  the  table  and  spoke  low. 

"I  want  you  to  come  and  look  after  my  home." 

She  managed  the  appearance  of  siuprise  which 
she  felt  the  occasion  called  for, 

"I  know  it  must  surprise  you,  even  startle 
you." 

("No,  I'm  not  so  easily  startled  as  you  think," 
Muriel  commented  inwardly.) 

"I  don't  ask  you  for  an  answer  now.  Think 
it  over.  Please  don't  say  it's  impossible  until 
you've  given  it  time." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Muriel  lamely, 
and  then  hated  herself  again  for  the  inadequacy 
of  her  expression.  "But  I  don't  think  I'm  the 
marrying  sort.  You  see,  you  hardly  know  any- 
thing at  all  about  me." 

"The  more  I  do  know,  the  more  I  shall  admire 
and  respect  you  and — may,  I  say  it? — love  you. 
I'm  quite  sure  of  that." 

"We  must  go  or  they'll  send  for  the  police. 


90      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

I*m  sure  that  poor  waiter  will  yawn  himself  into 
lockjaw  if  we  stay  any  longer." 

"I'll  give  him  a  good  tip.  I  should  like  to 
tip  the  whole  staff.  This  has  been  the  happiest 
evening  of  my  life.'* 

"But  really,  you  know " 

"Don't  say  anything  now.  Please  don't. 
Thank  you  anyway  for  letting  me  talk  to  you 
about  it." 

Muriel  went  home  puzzled.  He  had  pleaded 
with  her  earnestly,  as  if  she  were  a  person  of 
some  importance  and  he  were  of  no  account,  as 
if  she  would  be  conferring  a  benefit  on  him  by 
listening  to  his  offer  of  marriage.  She  felt  a 
new  sense  of  power,  and  with  it  a  new  feeling 
of  condescension  towards  Tanstead.  Hitherto 
she  had  thought  of  him  as  a  superior  being.  She 
had  been  slightly  in  awe  of  him.  Now  the  con- 
templation of  him  amused  her. 

§  iii 

Her  other  suitor  was  Tony  Hilford.  They 
had  been  together  to  a  small  picture  gallery. 
He  had  made  fun  of  the  latest  fad  among  the 
painters,  who  seek  ever  some  new  thing,  and 
Muriel  had  fallen  into  his  humour,  after  putting 
forth  her  little  protest  against  his  dismissal  of 
the  whole  movement  as  "rot." 

"No,  it  isn't  all  rot,  Tony,"  she  told  him,  as 
they  sat  down,  weary  with  laughter.  "I  was 
reading  an  article  the  other  day  by  a  man  who 
said  these  people.  Futurists  and  Cubists  and  the 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       91 

rest,  are  doing  the  same  sort  of  useful  work  as 
the  microbes  that  eat  up  harmful  substances  and 
prevent  them  from  doing  harm,  or  the  men  you 
see  breaking  up  old  houses  which  have  to  be  de- 
stroyed before  new  ones  can  be  built.  They  are 
demolishing  all  the  formalism  and  the  humbug  of  ^^ 
Art  and  trying  to  start  afresh."  — ^ 

"Good  idea,"  Tony  agreed.  "Awfully  good 
name  for  a  new  group,  the  Microbes." 

"Something  in  it,  you  know,"  she  persisted. 

"Rather!"  said  Tony.  Then:  "I  say,  what  a 
lot  you  read!" 

"Not  half  as  much  as  I  should  like  to." 

"You're  devastatingly  clever,  you  know." 

"My  dear  Tony,  what  rot!" 

But  she  was  pleased  that  he  should  think  so. 

"Do  you  think  you'd  care  ...  I  mean,  would 
you  think  it  fearful  cheek  if  I  asked  you  to  be 
engaged  to  me?"  he  said  shyly.  They  were  walk- 
ing now  along  Piccadilly  by  the  side  of  the  Green 
Park  raihngs,  shrouded  in  the  gloom  of  evening, 
his  arm  through  hers. 

"I  should  think  it  much  more  sensible  of  you 
not  to,"  she  replied. 

"Why?" 

"I  think  engagements  are  futile  unless  people 
have  a  reasonably  near  prospect  of  getting  mar- 
ried. Your  prospects  aren't  very  bright,  are 
they?" 

"Not  at  the  moment,  but  you  never  know 
what's  going  to  turn  up.  They'd  be  a  lot 
brighter  if  I  were  engaged  to  you." 

"How  do  you  make  that  out?" 


92      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"It'd  give  me  something  to  work  for.  *About 
this  time,'  you'll  be  able  (perhaps!)  to  read  in  my 
biography,  'our  hero  found  an  incentive  to  greater 
industry  than  he  had  yet  displayed.  He  became 
engaged  to  the  clever  and  charming  Miss  Muriel 
Oversedge,  and  from  this  hour  it  may  be  said  that 
his  character  was  changed.'  " 

"In  that  case,  Tony,  I  most  certainly  shan't 
say  anything  but  a  decided  'No.*  I  should  hate 
any  change  in  you.    I  like  you  as  you  are." 

"Well,  we'll  cut  out  the  change  of  character. 
But  it  would  make  me  work  harder,  you  know.'* 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  work  hard.  Your 
brain  won't  stand  it.  I  don't  want  you  to  get 
bubbles  in  your  think-tank  and  have  the  blame 
laid  on  me." 

"I  say,  I'm  really  serious,  you  know.  And 
look  here,  I'll  tell  you  a  secret.  My  father  went 
to  see  an  old  sister  of  his  the  other  day.  She's 
got  heaps  of  money.  Husband  left  it  to  her. 
She  told  my  father  she  meant  to  leave  most  of  it 
to  me." 

"Ever  seen  you,  Tony?** 

"Not  since  I  was  a  small  boy." 

"Thought  not,"  chuckled  Muriel. 

"It's  that  that's  given  me  the  nerve  to  ask 
you.  Of  course  I  couldn't  have  said  anything 
if  I  were  always  going  to  be  as  poor  as  we  are 
now." 

"So  all  that  about  your  working  harder  was 
eye-wash,"  Muriel  challenged  him. 

"No,  it  wasn't;  not  altogether.  The  old  lady 
may  live  ever  so  long.     I  shan't  chuck  work. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE      93 

you  know.  I  shall  go  on  even  when  I've  got  the 
money." 

"Well,  It's  perfect  of  you,  Tony,  to  offer  to 
share  it  with  me.    You're  a  dear." 

"1  hate  to  think  of  you  having  to  grub  about 
for  a  living." 

"You  haven't  been  pitying  me,  have  you?" 
Muriel  asked,  stopping  suddenly  and  withdraw- 
ing her  arm  from  his.  "Why  shouldn't  I  grub 
about  for  a  living?  Do  you  think  I'm  less  cap- 
able of  keeping  myself  than  a  man?" 

"No,  of  course  I  don't.  I  know  you're  tre- 
mendously clever.  I  told  you  so  just  now.  But 
I  don't  like  to  think  of  you  being  obliged  to  do 
it,  and  to  keep  on  at  it " 

"You're  a  sentimental  ass,  Tony.  You  mean 
well,  I  know,  but  don't  you  see  that  you're  say- 
ing to  me,  in  effect,  'You're  an  inferior  creature, 
not  fit  to  take  your  own  part  in  the  world.' 
Being  sorry  for  me  is  really  looking  down  on  me.'* 

"I  apologise,"  said  Tony.  "I'm  an  ass,  I 
know.  I  suppose  I  don't  put  things  the  right 
way,  the  way  I  really  mean  them.  Sorry  I've 
annoyed  you,  old  thing." 

He  deftly  slipped  his  arm  through  hers  again. 
She  walked  on  contentedly.  Tony  chattered  as 
usual.  At  parting,  however,  he  said  to  her, 
"Don't  forget,"  and  looked  hard  into  her  eyes. 

"Think  I'd  better,"  she  returned  lightly; 
"safer  to  keep  on  as  we  are." 


94      THE  ICRUIT  OE  THE  TREE 


"So  this,"  reflected  Muriel,  "is  what  goes  by 
the  name  of  love." 

"Here  are  two  men  *in  love'  with  me,  one 
because  he  wants  a  home  and  thinks  I  could 
make  one  for  him  and  be  a  piece  of  furniture 
he*d  like  to  look  at;  the  other,  because  he  feels 
sorry  for  me.  If  I'd  happened  to  be  married, 
or  if  I'd  been  stupid  over  doing  the  answers  to 
correspondents,  or  if  I'd  had  a  cast  in  my  eye, 
fTanstead  wouldn't  have  looked  twice  at  me.  Sup- 
posing I'd  had  money  enough  to  live  on  com- 
fortably, it  would  never  have  occurred  to  Tony 
that  I  was  an  object  for  sympathy.  He'd  have 
been  quite  satisfied  with  our  friendship.  Neither 
of  them  would  have  'fallen  in  love'  with  me. 

"For  it's  quite  clear,"  she  argued,  "that  the 
*faUing  in  love'  was  a  secondary  experience,  aris- 
ing in  the  one  case  out  of  pity,  in  the  other  out 
of  the  desire  for  a  home." 

She  told  Anne  about  it,  discussed  it  with  her, 
analysing  love  as  if  she  had  it  in  a  test-tube  and 
had  appUed  reagents  to  decompose  it  into  its 
elements. 

"It  is  a  feeling  which  seldom  springs  up  in 
the  usual  yoimg  man  unless  it  is  started  by  some 
other  feehng,  and  the  usual  young  man  doesn't 
let  it  take  possession  of  him  unless  the  circum- 
stances are  favourable.  It  is  comfortably  under 
his  control.  He  knows  that  if  it  were  to  get  out 
of  control  the  consequences  would  be  beyond  his 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE      95 

power  to  foresee ;  they  would  almost  certainly  be 
unpleasant;  they  might  be  disgraceful." 

"Then  isn't  it  better  to  avoid  them?"  Anne  sug- 
gested. 

"Better,  yes,  if  you  want  a  quiet  life,"  admitted 
Muriel.  "But  then,  why  drag  in  the  *in  love' 
business?" 

"It's  there  all  right,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten. 
I'm  sure  most  men  are  in  love  when  they  marry. 
It  may  not  last  long,  but  it's  genuine  enough 
while  it  does  last." 

"Yes,  I  don't  deny  that.  But  look  here — in 
France  and  Ireland  and  other  countries  where 
marriages  are  arranged  by  the  parents  on  a  busi- 
ness basis  there  is  in-loveness  in  most  of  those 
cases  too." 

"Wouldn't  you  say  that  any  two  healthy  peo- 
ple are  likely  to  take  to  one  another  if  circum- 
stances are  favourable,  as  you  put  it?" 

"Exactly.  That's  just  what  I  complain  of. 
The  usual  man  picks  out  a  woman  to  propose  to, 
not  because  he  feels  that  she  is  the  ideal  mate 
for  him,  the  mate  he  simply  can't  do  without, 
but  for  some  totally  different  reason,  and  then 
he  persuades  himself  and  tries  to  persuade  her 
(and  generally  succeeds)  that  she  is  the  only 
woman  in  the  world  for  him,  and  the  whole  thing 
gets  put  on  to  a  wrong  plane,  on  to  a  false 
foundation." 

"I  don't  really  see  that  it  matters  much," 
Anne  objected.  "If  a  man  can  persuade  himself 
that  he's  in  love,  he  is." 

"But,  don't  you  see,  it*s  the  'persuading  him- 


96      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

self  that's  wrong.  Either  of  these  men,  Tanstead 
and  Tony,  could  fall  in  love  with  any  girl.  That's 
all  right.  That's  natural.  Why  not  let  it  be 
assumed?" 

"Well,  supposing  it  were,  what  then?  I  can't 
see  what  you're  driving  at." 

"It's  all  reduced  to  such  a  wretchedly  small 
scale,"  Muriel  answered  slowly.  "If  what  is 
called  *love'  depends  on  such  things  as  a  man 
being  sorry  for  you  or  thinking  you'd  make  a 
suitable  ornament  .  .  .  My  idea  is  that  love 
means  being  struck  all  of  a  heap  and  disregard- 
ing all  the  conveniences;  burning  up  all  the  ob- 
stacles ;  f  eehng  certain  that  there  is  only  one  mate 
for  you.  That  ought  to  come  first.  That's  the 
only  thing  that  matters." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  Anne  said,  shaking  her 
head.  "I  know  you've  got  the  poets  on  your  side. 
'Whoever  loved  that  loved  not  at  first  sight?' 
and  so  on.  But  the  poets  have  most  of  them  made 
a  mess  of  their  love-affairs.  I  don't  think  I 
should  call  them  as  witness,  if  I  were  you. 
They'd  come  out  badly  under  cross-examination." 

"Why  are  the  poets  always  being  quoted 
then?"  demanded  Muriel.  "It  must  be  because 
people  feel  they  were  right." 

"No,  it's  because  people  want  to  feel  they  were 
right.     Most  people  prefer  ideals  to  realities." 

"You  can't  accuse  me  of  that,"  protested 
Muriel. 

"You  have  unsuspected  idealist  streaks  in  your 
realism,"  laughed  Anne. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


Not  till  the  day  came  for  Muriel  to  take  her 
"answers"  to  Tanstead  did  she  weigh  up  the  dif- 
ficulty they  would  have  in  reverting  to  their  busi- 
ness relation.  The  more  she  thought  about  it, 
the  more  vividly  she  foresaw  the  awkwardness 
they  both  would  feel.  His  proposal  she  had 
thought  very  little  more  about.  She  would  have 
liked  to  behave  as  if  it  had  not  been  made.  But 
that,  she  saw,  would  puzzle  him,  and  might  even 
seem  unkind. 

"Bother  the  man,"  she  said  to  Anne.  "What 
a  silly  mess  up  he's  made  of  it !  The  idea  of  pro- 
posing to  a  girl  who's  never  shown  the  slightest 
interest  in  him!" 

"I  can't  see,"  Anne  reflected,  "when  people 
really  care  for  one  another,  that  any  proposal  is 
necessary.  Each  must  know  the  other  cares  all 
right.  They  just  would  fall  into  each  other's 
arms." 

"My  idea  exactly,"  Muriel  told  her,  "what  I 
was  trying  to  explain  to  you  the  other  day,  only 
you  didn't  seem  to  see  what  I  meant  then.  When 
the  attraction  is  real  and  .  .  .  and  overwhelm- 
ing, the  whole  thing  is  as  simple  and  irresistible 
as  any  other  process  of  nature.  But  that  happens 
jolly  seldom  I'm  sure." 

"We're  so  damnably  over-civilised.    Our  lives 

97 


98      THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

get  more  and  more  complicated  and  unnatural 
( if  there's  any  such  thing  as  Nature ) .  Simplicity- 
gets  further  and  further  away." 

"I'm  not  going  to  pick  up  your  challenge  to 
discuss  what  we  mean  by  Nature,  because  it 
would  take  too  long,  and  I  must  go." 

(They  had  lunched  together  and  were  talking 
over  coffee  and  cigarettes.) 

"But  I  do  disagree  with  you,"  Muriel  con- 
tinued, "about  life  not  getting  more  simple  and 
sensible.  Look  at  divorce,  for  instance.  It  used 
to  be  thought  frightful,  a  disgrace,  a  sin.  Now 
it's  quite  common.  The  people  who  think  that 
a  man  and  woman  who've  made  a  mistake  should 
go  on  spoiHng  each  other's  lives  to  the  end  of  the 
chapter  are  very  few  now.  Soon  there  won't  be 
any.    Oh,  we  get  more  sensible  in  lots  of  ways." 

"Very  well,  be  sensible  enough  to  go  and  do 
your  business  with  Tanstead  as  if  nothing  had 
happened." 

"But  he'll  probably  ask  me  for  my  answer." 

"Give  it  to  him,  then," 

"That  would  be  equivalent  to  chucking  up  my 
job.    I  don't  want  to  do  that  yet." 

"Can't  you  teU  him  he  must  wait  a  bit  till 
you've  made  up  your  mind?" 

"Then  he'd  expect  me  to  meet  him  pretty  often, 
perhaps  want  to  introduce  me  to  his  family,  if 
he's  got  one.  I  can't  have  him  taking  me  about 
to  restaurants  and  theatres,  and  paying  all  the 
time.  I'm  sure  he's  the  sort  who  wouldn't  let  me 
pay  for  myself — and  then  tell  him  'nothing 
doing.' " 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE       99 

"Can't  you?"  said  Anne. 

No  one  had  ever  taken  her  out  on  these  terms, 
or  indeed  on  any  other;  she  knew  she  would  joy- 
fully avail  herself  of  any  invitation  without  think- 
ing further  than  the  chance  of  getting  patches  of 
colour  into  her  grey  life. 

"It  wouldn't  be  cricket,  would  it?" 

"Oh,  don't  use  that  feeble,  public  school-boy 
expression,"  Anne  cried  out,  a  sudden  wave  of 
annoyance  submerging  her. 

She  was  annoyed  because  Muriel's  life  seemed 
so  much  less  grey  than  her  own.  Already 
Muriel  had  enjoyed  an  independent  existence 
with  comparative  wealth  for  a  year  and  a  half, 
then  she  had  by  a  shake  of  Fortune's  dice  been 
reduced  to  poverty,  she  had  been  obliged  to  wres- 
tle with  the  world  for  a  living;  two  men  had 
proposed  to  her ;  she  could,  if  she  chose,  be  taken 
out  as  often  as  she  pleased. 

Anne  longed  for  independence;  she  would 
have  welcomed  even  poverty  as  a  change,  an  ex- 
citement; to  win  admiration,  affection,  was  her 
most  tormenting  wish.  Her  life  had  been  un- 
eventful, she  felt;  it  had  lacked  colour  and  vari- 
ety. She  had,  as  she  once  told  Muriel,  been 
passing  examinations  ever  since  she  could  remem- 
ber. There  had  never  been  any  doubt  of  her 
passing  them ;  her  heart  had  never  been  made  to 
beat  faster  by  the  thought  that  she  might  fail. 
Her  mind  was  so  neatly  compartmented  that  she 
could  always  produce  from  it  just  what  the  exam, 
papers  required.  Long  practice  had  made  her 
sure  of  herself. 


100     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

She  could  see  the  future  stretching  out  before 
her  just  as  level  and  arid  as  the  past  had  been. 
She  would  do  well  in  her  final,  she  would  be 
called  to  the  Bar,  not  among  the  first  batch  of 
women  (that  would  have  made  her  interesting), 
but  among  the  second.  Then  she  would  steadily 
build  up  a  commonplace  practice,  winning  fa- 
vour with  judges  by  her  moderation,  her  care- 
ful study  of  detail ;  giving  satisfaction  to  clients, 
increasing  her  income  year  by  year.  When  she 
was  too  dried-up,  and  had  become  too  mechanical 
in  her  way  of  life,  to  enjoy  independence,  she 
would  be  independent.  Not  until  she  had  lost 
the  spring  of  fancies  would  she  be  in  a  position 
to  indulge  them.  She  was  missing  all  that  she 
really  wanted  now  as  she  had  always  missed  it, 
and  always  would.  Why  should  Fortune  be  so 
much  kinder  to  Muriel  than  to  her? 

So  Anne's  quick  thought  ran,  provoking  her 
to  ill-tempered  speech. 

"Oh,  don't  use  that  feeble  public  school-boy 
expression,"  she  snapped. 

Muriel  looked  at  her  quickly,  slightly  raised 
her  brows,  said  "Sorry,"  got  up  to  go. 

"No,  no,"  said  Anne,  swiftly  repentant.  "I'm 
sorry  for  my  rotten  bad  temper.  My  nerves  are 
a  bit  edgy,  I  think." 

"You're  working  too  hard,  old  thing,"  Muriel 
suggested  kindly,  as  she  fastened  a  fur  round 
her  shoulders.  "Lucky  for  you  that  you've  got 
something  to  work  for." 

"Oh,  lucky  1"  Anne  said  with  a  petulant  shrug. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     101 

§ii 

After  all  Muriel  took  the  easiest  course  with 
Tanstead;  she  temporised. 

"Really,"  she  told  him,  "I  hadn't  thought 
about  marrying.  I  suppose  there's  an  age  at 
which  one  realises  how  grown-up  one  is.  I 
haven't  come  to  it  yet.  What  you  said  the  other 
night  was  such  a  surprise." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  he  assented,  "I  want  you 
to  get  used  to  the  idea.  Let's  get  to  know  one 
another  better.    There's  no  hurry." 

"You're  ambitious,  aren't  you?"  she  asked  him. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  am.  But  how  did  you 
guess?" 

"Most  people  who  work  hard  have  some  sort 
of  ambition,  haven't  they?  You  ought  to  marry 
a  woman  who  would  help  you  along." 

He  laughed. 

"Some  'rich  attorney's  elderly,  ugly  daughter/ 
I  suppose.    No,  thanks." 

"Money  would  help  you,  you  know.  The  right 
kind  of  influence,  if  your  wife's  people  had  it, 
might  be  still  more  useful." 

"I  shouldn't  care  to  be  indebted  to  my  wife 
for  that  kind  of  help,"  Tanstead  said,  frowning 
so  that  his  thick  eyebrows  almost  hid  his  eyes. 
"Besides,  money  and  influence  might  turn  up 
their  noses  at  me.  Of  course,"  he  went  on,  hur- 
rying his  words  out,  "you  might  do  that,  too. 
You'd  be  perfectly  justified."  He  saw  that  he 
had  spoken  rather  tactlessly. 

"You  mean,"  said  Muriel  mischievously,  "that 


102     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

I  might  be  ambitious  myself,  and  be  looking  out 
for  a  rich  husband  with  a  big  position  already 
made." 

"Yes,  quite;  why  shouldn't  you?" 

"Why  not,  indeed?'*  she  echoed,  enjoying  his 
embarrassment.  He  caught  the  gleam  in  her 
eyes,  and  said  in  a  tone  of  relief:  "You're  laugh- 
ing at  me. 

"Well,"  he  went  on,  "I  gave  you  an  opening. 
And  I  rather  like  being  laughed  at  .  .  .  by  you." 

That  seemed  to  Muriel  to  be  of  good  omen  for 
their  friendship  at  any  rate;  it  inclined  her  a 
httle  more  towards  thinking  of  him  as  a  possible 
husband.  She  had  heard  Mims  say  once  that 
more  marriages  had  been  spoiled  by  a  difference 
in  the  sense  of  humour  than  by  any  other  cause. 
The  saying  had  stuck  in  her  mind.  She  had 
analysed  it  in  her  sceptical,  inquisitive  way  and 
watched  to  see  if  it  were  confirmed  by  what 
she  could  observe  and  hear  of  the  behaviour 
of  married  people.  She  found  ample  corrobora- 
tion of  it,  and  adopted  it  into  her  philosophy  of 
life. 

Finding  that  he  could  be  chaffed  made  her 
feel  more  at  ease  and  grow  into  liking  for  him. 
She  was  flattered  by  his  acceptance  of  her  opinion 
as  the  equal  in  value  of  his  own.  Already  he 
was  a  man  of  some  little  distinction,  he  might  be 
on  the  way  to  greatness;  to  be  treated  by  him 
as  a  comrade  intellectually  gave  her  a  higher 
judgment  of  her  own  ability.  She  enjoyed  the 
flavour  of  his  talk,  the  quickness  of  his  mind, 
his  terse  statement  of  matters  in  discussion  be- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     103 

tween  them.  She  felt  her  own  thought  widen 
its  grasp  and  grow  more  flexible. 

Materially,  as  well  as  mentally,  she  drew  ad- 
vantage from  her  new  companion.  He  went  to 
the  ofiice  of  Woman's  Sphere  and  asked  the 
editor  to  put  other  work  in  Muriel's  way.  He 
explained  that  she  "assisted"  him  with  the  legal 
queries,  spoke  highly  of  her  competence,  and  was 
careful  not  to  say  that  she  needed  work.  If  he 
had  made  that  mistake,  she  would  not  have  got 
any.  By  representing  her  as  a  kind  of  talented 
amateur,  he  left  on  the  editor's  mind  the  impres- 
sion that  Muriel  would  add  social  lustre  to  the 
staflp  and  really  be  doing  the  paper  a  service  by 
consenting  to  connect  herself  with  it. 

Soon  Muriel  was  occupied  at  the  office  two 
days  and  a  half  every  week.  The  editor  had 
begun  by  giving  her  general  queries  to  answer. 
"Is  there  any  cure  for  creaky  boots?"  "How 
should  the  married  daughter  of  an  earl  be  ad- 
dressed?" "Does  reading  aloud  help  to  remove 
a  London  (E)  accent?"  These  she  was  able 
to  polish  off  rapidly,  with  the  aid  of  a  large  scrap- 
book  kept  in  the  office.  This  contained  replies  to 
the  queries  just  quoted  and  to  a  large  number  of 
others  in  the  vein  mostly  of  pathetic  social  striv- 
ing upward  against  inherited  obstacles. 

"You'll  rarely  get  a  question  the  scrap-book 
doesn't  answer,"  said  the  assistant-editor,  who 
wore  horn-rimmed  spectacles,  and  through  her 
habit  of  putting  down  and  forgetting  lighted 
cigarettes  had  the  effect  of  a  prairie  fire  upon  her 
surroundings.     "You  know  they  can  calculate 


104     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

how  many  idiots  will  get  run  over  in  the  streets 
in  each  year,  ahnost  in  each  week.  It's  just  the 
same  with  the  people  who  ask  questions  in  a 
paper.  There  are  so  many  who  are  impelled  to 
ask  this,  and  so  many  that  and  so  many  the 
other.  The  numbers  are,  I  have  no  doubt,  con- 
stant. Never  counted  'em  up,  don't  mean  to, 
but  if  I  did,  I'm  sure  I  should  find  the  same  ques- 
tions asked  the  same  number  of  times  every  year. 
There's  a  kind  of  regularity  about  human  silli- 
ness, isn't  there,  which  gives  it  almost  the  dignity 
of  the  solar  system  ...  or  a  try-your-weight 
machine." 

The  assistant-editor  found  Muriel  an  appre- 
ciative audience  and  made  other  jobs  for  her. 
She  learned  something  about  sub-editing,  wrote 
odds  and  ends,  earned  sometimes  as  much  as  an 
extra  thirty  shillings  a  week. 

Now  she  insisted  that,  when  she  and  Tanstead 
dined  together  or  took  a  walk  on  fine  Sundays 
or  went  to  the  play,  she  should  pay  for  herself. 
This  had  a  double  advantage.  It  saved  her  from 
putting  herself  under  an  obligation  to  him,  and 
it  gave  her  an  excuse  for  limiting  the  frequency 
of  their  meetings.  She  could  at  any  time  say,  if 
she  pleased:  "Can't  afford  it  this  week."  When 
she  did  say  this,  Tanstead's  eyebrows  always  came 
down  over  his  eyes :  he  would  growl  out  a  protest. 
But  Muriel  was  quietly  insistent,  and  he  had  the 
sense  not  to  argue  about  it. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     105 

§  iii 

So  the  winter  passed.  Spring  filled  the  Tem- 
ple Courts  with  sunshine  and,  wherever  there 
were  trees,  with  the  delight  of  uncurling  fresh 
green  leaves.  Now  approached  the  "Call  Night," 
ever  to  be  memorable  in  history,  which  saw  the  / 
first  British  woman  admitted  to  that  powerful 
trade  union  called  the  Bar.  And  one  morning, 
when  Mrs.  Syrom  had  put  a  letter  on  the  table 
along  with  Muriel's  coffee  and  egg  and  toast, 
she  was  startled,  as  she  was  "seeing  to  the  fire," 
by  an  exclamation.  She  turned  round  sharply, 
saw  Muriel  with  the  opened  letter  in  her  hand, 
caught  her  eye. 

"It's  all  right,  Mrs.  Syrom,"  Muriel  assured 
her,  laughing  at  her  expression  of  surprise  and 
shock.  "I  only  said  'Oh,  help!'  What  do  you 
think?    I've  got  to  go  and  be  a  barrister's  clerk." 

"Oh,  no,  miss,  you  can't  be  right  there,"  the 
landlady  told  her.  "All  men,  they  are,  barristers' 
clerks.  I  know  a  lot  about  them,  miss,  I  'ad  an 
uncle  was  one." 

"Really?  Do  tell  me  about  him.  What  does 
a  barrister's  clerk  have  to  do?" 

"That  I  can't  tell  you,  miss,  but  I  know  they 
make  a  mint  o'  money,  some  of  them.  This 
uncle,  he  had  a  friend  who  was  clerk  to  a  gentle- 
man that  was  made  a  judge,  and  when  the  judge 
said  to  'im,  *I  hope  as  you'll  not  leave  me,'  he 
said  to  the  judge,  'Well  m'lud,  a  judge's  clerk, 
as  I  understand,  draws  a  salary  of  four  hundred 
pounds  a  year.  I  can't  afford,  m'lud,'  he  says, 
'to  do  it  for  that.'    So  the  judge  paid  him  anothe^ 


106     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

two  hundred  pounds  out  of  his  own  pocket." 

"Six  hundred  a  yearl"  said  Muriel.    "Golly!" 

"Yes,  miss,  and  some  more  than  that.  There 
was  one  my  uncle  told  me  of,  said  to  be  worth 
thousands,  he  was.  They  did  say  he  owned  a  big 
set  of  chambers — ^that's  what  they  call  their  of- 
fices." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know." 

"Of  course  you  do,  miss,  you  studying  the  law 
and  all.  Well,  these  chambers,  they  said,  this 
clerk  paid  the  rent  of,  and  kept  a  lot  of  legal 
gentlemen  in  them  to  do  the  work  he  got  for 
them.  They  said  he'd  find  out  the  likely  young 
gentlemen  and  say  to  them,  'I've  got  chambers 
that  would  just  suit  you,  sir,'  and  the  young  gen- 
tleman would  most  likely  say,  'Can't  afford  'em,' 
and  then  this  clerk  would  say,  'That's  quite  all 
right,  sir.  No  rent  to  pay.  Plenty  of  work  and 
divide  the  profits  between  us.'  Thousands  they 
said  he  was  worth,  my  uncle  told  me." 

"It  was  very  unprofessional,"  said  Muriel 
severely. 

"I  don't  know  nothing  about  that,  miss.  Uncle 
said  there  was  some  clerks  knew  more  of  the  law 
than  the  gentlemen  they  were  employed  by. 
Knew  a  lot  himself,  uncle  did.  Said  if  they'd 
made  it  easy  for  clerks  to  get  made  barristers, 
instead  of  makin'  it  next  door  to  impossible,  what 
with  the  learning  required  and  the  money  to  be 
put  down,  he'd  have  been  wearing  a  wig  and 
eamin'  big  money  along  with  the  best  of  'em." 

"It  does  seem  rather  hard,"  Muriel  agreed. 

"Runs  in  families  this  kind  o'  clerkin'  does," 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     107 

Mrs.  Syrom  went  on,  dusting  the  mantelpiece 
again  to  absolve  herself  from  the  reproach  of 
"idhng."  "Uncle's  father  and  grandfather  had 
been  in  chambers,  as  he  called  it,  and  his  son  took 
to  it  after  he'd  tried  the  army  and  had  a  year  or 
two  at  sea.  Couldn't  resist  the  family  call,  imcle 
said." 

"Well,  there  are  going  to  be  women  barristers 
very  soon  now,  and  I'm  going  to  be  a  barrister's 
clerk,"  Muriel  announced,  as  she  pushed  back 
her  chair,  breakfast  over. 

"Well,  well,  well,  what  shall  we  come  to  next, 
I  wonder,"  Mrs.  Syrom  said.  "I'm  sure  I  wish 
you  lucky,  miss,  but  what  them  other  clerks'U 
have  to  say  about  you — that  I  should  hke  to 
know." 

"Not  very  encouraging,"  thought  Muriel,  "but 
I  suppose  I  can  stick  it  out.    After  all  .  .  ," 

She  was  dining  that  night  with  Tanstead  and 
told  him  the  news.  His  eyebrows  came  down. 
He  protested  vehemently.  It  was  impossible 
that  she  should  descend  to  such  an  occupation. 

"Descend  ?"  repeated  Muriel  calmly.  "Do  you 
reaHse,  my  dear  man,  that  I've  got  to  earn  my 
living?" 

"No,  you  haven't,"  he  jerked  at  her,  and  then 
instantly  apologised.  "I  mean  you  needn't  im- 
less  you  like,"  he  ended  weakly. 

"Now,  don't  think  me  brutal  or  unsympathetic 
if  I  suggest  to  you  that  I  should  be  earning  my 
living  even  if  I  married  you." 

"No,  no,  an  equal  partnership,  that's  my  idea." 

"Very  well,  let's  call  it  that.    Both  partners 


108     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

would  be  expected  to  do  their  share  in  keeping 
the  business,  that  is  the  household,  going.  You'd 
be  earning  your  living,  wouldn't  you?  Then 
so  should  I.  However,  that  isn't  the  main  point. 
The  main  point  is  that  I  want  more  money  and 
therefore  more  work,  and  I've  got  time  to  do 
more  and  here's  a  perfectly  good  offer.  Now, 
tell  me,  what  does  your  clerk  do?" 

"Do  ?  He  keeps  my  fee-book  and  the  fee-books 
of  the  two  other  fellows  I'm  in  chambers  with," 
Tanstead  replied  shortly. 

"Is  that  all?  I  think  I  could  do  that,"  Muriel 
said  demurely. 

"He  arranges  with  solicitors  what  fees  they 
shall  pay  me.  He  takes  in  and  looks  after  the 
documents  they  send  me.  He  keeps  a  diary  for 
me  and  tells  me  what  I've  got  to  do  every  day. 
He  tries  to  buck  me  up  by  telling  me  he  doesn't 
think  I've  got  a  ghost  of  a  chance  to  win.  That's 
a  tradition  with  clerks  in  chambers.  They  think 
it'll  make  a  man  do  his  best  to  be  told  he  hasn't 
got  a  good  case.  Queer  notion.  Wonder  where 
it  came  from?" 

Tanstead  had  recovered  his  good  humour. 
He  was  smiling  now  and  chatting  in  his  usual 
tone. 

"Oh,  yes,  and  he  makes  tea  for  us  every  af- 
ternoon. That's  an  important  part  of  his  duties. 
Jolly  good  tea  he  makes  too." 

"I  wouldn't  mind  backing  myself  against  him 
as  a  tea-maker,"  Muriel  said. 

Down  came  the  eyebrows  again. 

"Now  don't  please  be  absurd  and  peevish," 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     109 

Muriel  adjured  him.  "What  is  there  in  the  job, 
as  you've  explained  it,  that  makes  it  unfit,  or 
even  unpleasant,  for  a  woman?  Your  objection 
really  is  that  it  hasn't  ever  been  done  by  a  woman. 
But  until  now  there  haven't  been  women  bar- 
risters. That  changes  the  whole  aspect.  Now, 
there  are  going  to  be  women  clerks  too,  or  at 
any  rate  there's  going  to  be  one.  So  please  be 
sensible  and  don't  fuss." 


CHAPTER  IX 


The  newspapers  got  hold  of  "First  Woman  Bar- 
rister's Clerk."  Muriel's  photograph  went  the 
round  of  them. 

"There,  you  seel"  said  Anne.  "Whatever  you 
do  brings  you  some  excitement,  turns  into  an 
adventure.  With  you  something  is  always  hap- 
pening. Nothing  ever  happens  with  me.  Noth- 
ing ever  will." 

"What  rot  I"  was  Muriel's  comment,  but  she 
admitted  to  herself  that  it  was  true. 

"It's  because  you're  vital,"  Anne  went  on. 
"There's  such  a  lot  of  life  in  you.  When  you 
want  anything,  you  get  it.  You  haven't  had 
the  energy  sucked  out  of  you  by  exams." 

"It's  good-bye  to  my  exam,  now,  I  suppose. 
I've  had  little  enough  time  to  read  lately.  I 
can't  see  that  I  shall  have  any  when  I  start  this 
new  job." 

"You'll  have  your  evenings." 

"Oh,  yes,  and  my  early  mornings,  too.  I  sup- 
pose you  see  me  getting  up  at  five  and  starting 
work  wrapped  in  my  dressing  gown  by  the  light 
of  a  candle." 

"No,  I  can  not  see  you  doing  anything  of 
the  kind,"  Anne  retorted.  "/  might  do  it — ^be- 
no 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     111 

cause  industry  is  my  long  suit.  Everything  you 
do  will  be  done  easily.  That's  the  way  with  vital 
people." 

Up  to  now,  Muriel  had  certainly  not  had  to 
struggle  hard  for  a  living.  She  did  not  think  she 
would  have  won  the  grudging  respect  of  Aunt 
Sybilla  if  Aunt  Sybilla  had  known  how  easy  it 
had  all  been. 

Neither  her  aunt  nor  the  lawyer  had  expected 
her  to  earn  an  independent  livelihood.  They 
both  thought  she  would  go  back  to  live  with  her 
brothers  and  sisters,  defeated  in  the  effort  to  sup- 
port herself.  They  neither  of  them  took  account  / 
of  the  new  and  stubborn  spirit  which  had  re-  V 
placed  in  young  women  the  old  helplessness  and 
irresolution.  Aunt  Sybilla  was  aware  that  High 
Schools  had  made  a  difference,  but  she  did  not 
know  until  she  watched  Muriel  making  good 
how  entirely  the  High  School  girl  was  unlike 
the  "young  lady"  of  the  fashionable  "finishing" 
school  of  the  Victorian  Age.  She  did  not  like  her 
niece  any  better  after  this  discovery,  but  she  could 
not  help  admiring  her,  was  even  a  little  proud 
of  her. 

"My  brother  had  unsuspected  reserves  of  f -for- 
titude," she  told  Mr.  Vines,  "and  I  am  not  sur- 
prised at  his  daughter  taking  after  him." 

It  was  a  foolish  lie,  for  the  lawyer  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  Mr.  Oversedge  had  only  once 
in  his  life  been  called  upon  for  any  show  of  for- 
titude, and  had  then  proved  himself  completely 
lacking  in  that  quahty. 

"Of  course,"  he  told  his  wife,  "it's  from  her 


112    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

mother  that  the  girl  gets  her  character.  Remark- 
able woman,  Mrs.  Oversedge,  quite  remarkable. 
The  girl  takes  after  her  in  many  ways.  Not  in 
all,  perhaps,  but  in  many.  Not  a  bit  like  her 
father,  fortunately  for  her." 

Muriel  did  not  often  go  "home."  She  found 
none  of  her  brothers  and  sisters  interesting. 
Aunt  Sybilla's  notion  that  they  "ought  to  inter- 
est her  because  they  were  her  brothers  and  sis- 
ters" she  dismissed  as  "antiquated,"  and  related 
to  Aunt  Sybilla  the  remark  of  a  friend  of  hers 
(it  was  Tony  Hilford)  who  said  that  if  he  had 
children,  he  should  board  them  out  from  infancy 
until  they  were  twenty  or  so,  and  would  then  see 
whether  they  were  worth  knowing.  This  was  re- 
lated in  order  to  illustrate  the  old-fashioned  sound 
of  "Blood  is  thicker  than  water"  and  also  to  "get 
Aunt  Sybilla's  goat,"  as  Muriel  phrased  it.  In 
this  latter  aim  she  was  fully  successful. 

From  Douglas  she  heard  occasionally.  He  was 
furious  with  her  for  giving  her  photograph  to  be 
published  in  the  newspapers.  "If  you  can't  help 
disgracing  your  family,"  he  wrote,  "you  might 
at  least  keep  it  dark."  He  complained  that 
"clerk"  sounded  so  rotten.  Surely,  he  sug- 
gested, she  might  have  got  some  decent  job  as 
typist  and  called  herself  a  private  secretary. 
Muriel  laughed  and  showed  the  letter  to  Anne; 
and  did  not  reply. 

For  some  time  her  duties  in  chambers  were  so 
light  as  to  make  her  feel  that  the  one  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  a  year  guaranteed  to  her  by 
her  two  employers,  both  women,  were  being  ob- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     113 

tained  under  false  pretences.  They  had  apol- 
ogised to  her  for  the  smallness  of  the  amount. 
They  knew  it  was  inadequate,  they  told  her,  but 
they  were  too  poor  to  make  it  a  larger  sum.  Of 
course,  if  they  got  plenty  of  briefs,  she  would 
earn  a  good  deal  more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty; 
since  clerks  took  percentages  on  all  fees  fixed 
and  collected  by  them  for  their  employers.  She 
would,  at  all  events,  have  time  for  doing  other 
work.  They  would  have  no  objection  at  all  to 
that. 

Muriel  accepted  their  offer  joyfully.  Her 
weekly  income  would  now  be  nearer  six  pounds 
than  three.  Upon  that  she  found  she  could  live 
comfortably  with  the  help  of  Mrs.  Syrom,  enjoy 
herself  in  a  moderate  fashion,  and  even  put  by 
a  little.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  begin 
saving  as  soon  as  possible,  and  even  before  this 
enlargement  of  her  fortunes,  she  had  made  it  a 
rule  to  add  to  her  deposit  in  a  bank  which  made 
a  special  feature  of  its  business  with  small  de- 
positors some  small  sum  every  week,  sometimes 
as  much  as  ten  shillings,  sometimes  as  little  as 
half-a-crown. 


S  11 

With  Tanstead  she  dined  often,  went  fairly 
often  to  the  theatre,  walked  in  Richmond  Park 
on  winter  Sundays,  went  on  the  river  in  summer. 
He  never  made  love  to  her,  in  the  sense  of  at- 
tempting caresses  or  pressing  her  to  answer  his 
proposal  of  marriage  or,  as  Muriel  expressed  it. 


114    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"talking  the  sort  of  sentimental  idiocy  you  find  in 
antiquated  novels/'  She  doubted,  indeed, 
whether  that  sort  of  lovemaking  was  not  a  sickly 
invention  of  the  novelists.  She  could  not  im- 
agine any  sane,  wholesome  girl  caring  about  it, 
and,  since  neither  Tanstead  nor  Tony  had  come 
anywhere  near  trying  it  upon  her  she  felt  justi- 
fied in  assuming  that  it  was  no  more  to  the  taste 
of  sensible  men. 

Tony  had  never  gone  back  to  the  matter  of 
his  outburst  that  evening  beside  the  railings  of 
the  Green  Park.  Muriel  lunched  with  him  as 
often  as  she  dined  with  Tanstead.  They  were 
great  friends.  When  she  took  up  her  duties  as 
clerk,  she  said  to  him: 

"Tony,  I  shan't  mind  a  bit  if  you  think  it 
would  be  better  for  us  not  to  lunch  together 
now." 

He  looked  at  her  genuinely  puzzled. 

"Now?"  he  repeated.  "Why?  You  aren't 
engaged  to  be  married,  are  you?" 

"No,  of  course  not,"  she  said,  and  then,  not 
heeding  his  interjected,  "Glory  be!"  went  on, 
"but  barristers  don't  lunch  with  barristers'  clerks 
as  a  rule,  you  know." 

He  looked  at  her  now  with  reproach  in  his 
eye. 

"Oh,  please,"  he  said,  and  he  said  it  in  such  a 
tone  that  Muriel  said  no  more,  and  the  question 
she  had  raised  was  buried  for  ever  between  them. 
She  reahsed  then  that  Tony's  devotion  was  not 
the  outcome  of  a  mood,  as  she  had  imagined; 
although  he  had  not  offered  any  further  expres- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     115 

sion  of  it,  it  was  there.  She  felt  that  she  could 
count  upon  it. 

She  thought  that  perhaps  Tony  might  have 
been  silent  because  he  believed  that  her  prefer- 
ence was  for  Tanstead.  She  had  made  the  two 
acquainted,  and  they  had  struck  up  a  friendship. 
Tanstead  was  not  by  many  years  the  older:  he 
was  thirty-one,  Tony  was  twenty-five.  They  had 
many  Oxford  memories  in  common.  Tony  ad- 
mired the  elder  man's  energy.  Tanstead  liked 
Tony's  guileless  flow  of  talk  and  determination  to 
find  life  amusing.  Far  from  resenting  Tony's 
company,  he  encouraged  it.  His  quick  mind 
satisfied  itself  that  Muriel  had  no  feeling  towards 
the  boy  more  complicated  than  friendship.  He 
had  therefore  no  fear  of  him  as  a  rival.  They 
dined  and  made  excursions  more  frequently  a 
trois  than  a  deuoo. 

Muriel  sometimes  wished  she  could  marry  a 
"composite"  of  the  two.  If  Tanstead  had  Tony's 
light  touch  and  love  of  nonsense  he  would  be  a 
perfect  companion,  she  reflected.  He  was,  even 
without  them,  a  man  whose  conversation  supplied 
the  distinction  which  his  appearance  lacked.  If 
she  had  to  choose  between  them,  she  would  feel 
herself  more  secure  with  him.  But  it  did  seem 
to  her  that  a  husband  with  the  solid  qualities  of 
Tanstead  and  with  Tony's  genius  for  frivolling 
would  be  altogether  ideal. 

Oh  why,  she  asked  Anne,  didn't  the  stupid 
old  laws  allow  a  woman  to  have  two  husbands? 
There  might  be  advantages  in  keeping  the  solid 
and  the  frivolous  separate.     She  could  be  quite 


lie    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

happy,  as  a  rule,  with  the  two  of  them,  but  there 
Were  times  when  she  preferred  Tanstead's  talk 
about  cases  or  pohtics,  or  life  in  general,  and 
there  were  other  times  when  she  wanted  nothing 
but  Tony's  nonsense. 

"Polyandry,"  said  Anne,  the  examination 
habit  strong  upon  her,  "has  been  and  still  is  prac- 
tised by  certain  tribes,  but  there  is " 

"You  imply,"  interrupted  Muriel,  "that  it  is 
a  practice  confined  to  savages.  When  people 
talk  about  'tribes,'  they  always  mean  to  be  sniffy. 
It's  as  bad  as  calling  people  'individuals,'  or  talk- 
ing about  a  man's  'associates'  instead  of  his 
friends." 

"I  don't  imply  anything,"  Anne  protested  pa- 
tiently. "As  a  matter  of  fact  it  has  not  been 
known  among  any  race  high  in  the  scale  of  civ- 
ilisation, as  we  understand  it." 

"High  time  it  was  then,"  said  Muriel  gaily. 
"It  would  just  suit  me." 

§  iii 

The  second  year  of  her  employment  in  the 
Temple  brought  more  briefs  to  the  two  women 
barristers,  and  more  work  therefore  to  their  clerk. 
But  it  did  not  bring  Muriel  more  interest  in  her 
work,  either  as  clerk  or  as  odd  member  of  the 
staff  of  Woman's  Sphere.  She  could  not  now  go 
to  the  office  as  much  as  before,  but  she  continued, 
through  the  liking  for  her  of  the  assistant-editor, 
to  get  various  small  jobs  which  she  could  do  in  the 
intervals  of  her  other  occupation.  She  was  tired 
of  these  small  jobs;  they  did  not  seem  likely  to 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     117 

lead  to  anything  that  would  be  either  more  excit- 
ing or  more  profitable.  As  for  the  clerk's  duties, 
they  were  duU  and  never  likely  to  be  anything 
else. 

She  did  not  begin  to  feel  really  dissatisfied, 
however,  until  misfortune  befell  her  from  another 
quarter.  Mrs.  Syrom  was  asked  to  take  charge 
as  housekeeper  of  a  seldom-used  country  house 
belonging  to  a  man  who  had  once  lodged  with 
her,  and  still  kept  grateful  memories  of  the  com- 
fort he  enjoyed. 

"The  only  thing  I  don't  hke  about  it  is  leav- 
ing you,  miss,"  she  told  Muriel,  who  bravely  as- 
sured her  that  "she  mustn't  worry  about  that.'* 
What  Muriel  felt,  however,  was  dismay  at  the 
prospect  of  having  to  find  another  home.  This 
was  the  only  one  she  had  known  in  London;  she 
had  grown  to  it,  could  hardly,  now  that  she  was 
forced  to  leave  it,  imagine  herself  anywhere  else. 
She  had  a  wild  hope  that  the  house  might  be 
taken  by  someone  who  would  continue  to  let 
rooms,  but  that  was  taken  away  when  Mrs. 
Syrom  told  her  the  Convent  had  bought  it. 

"Long  they've  had  their  eye  on  it,  miss.  Just 
convenient  for  them  it  is,  the  gardens  joining  and 
aU.  I  wonder  now,  though,  where  they  get  their 
money.  No  stint  of  it,  to  judge  by  their  bills 
for  washing.  Always  clean  linen,  starched  and 
fresh,  under  their  head-pieces.  Nice  they  look  in 
it,  too;  and  their  eyes,  have  you  ever  noticed, 
miss,  what  contented  eyes  nuns  always  have,  soft 
lines  in  their  faces  as  if  they  didn't  know  what 
worry  meant?" 


118     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

Muriel  had  not  noticed  this.  She  did  not  often 
look  at  nuns  when  she  passed  them.  She  shrank 
from  them  as  from  the  abnormal,  the  "anti- 
quated." Their  lives  seemed  to  her  to  be  useless. 
It  was  pusillanimous,  she  thought,  to  be  con- 
tinually praying,  continually  pestering  God  to 
save  your  soul  and  the  souls  of  a  few  others  who 
happened  to  profess  the  same  creed.  Yet,  now 
this  observation  of  Mrs.  Syrom's  brought  to  her 
recollection  that  nuns  did  always  look  contented, 
as  if  they  had  no  cares  or  difficulties.  She  began 
to  think  it  would  be  pleasant  not  to  be  obliged 
to  think  about  making  a  living  and  finding  a 
place  to  live  in.  The  summer  had  begun  warmly. 
All  the  people  who  usually  decried  the  climate  for 
its  lack  of  sunshine  were  complaining  of  the 
"fearful  heat."  Muriel  was  feeling  slack,  think- 
ing with  envy  of  those  who  could  motor  down  to 
the  coast  for  week-ends.  The  thought  of  hunting 
about  for  rooms  was  so  repellent  that  she  decided 
to  try  a  boarding-house  for  a  time. 

Soon  she  learned  how  much  her  health  and 
activity,  and  therefore  her  good  spirits,  had  been 
supported  by  Mrs.  Syrom's  plain  but  always 
nourishing  and  ample  meals.  She  spent  more 
now  and  got  less  for  it.  The  boarding-house  she 
chose  was  one  where  Poppy  Sand  had  lived  since 
Anne's  mother  had  become  so  much  of  an  invalid 
that  a  nurse  had  to  live  in  the  tiny  house ;  Poppy's 
room  had  been  given  up  to  her.  The  "inmates," 
as  Muriel  called  them,  were  not  quite  as  bad  as 
she  had  expected.  Her  ideas  of  boarding-houses 
were  taken  from  novels.    She  thought  the  board- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     119 

ers  would  all  "have  seen  better  days."  She 
imagined  them  snobbish,  quarrelsome,  perpetu- 
ally complaining. 

She  was  relieved  to  find  that  the  novelists  had 
misled  her.  Most  of  the  "inmates"  went  to  some 
kind  of  work  or  other  every  day.  Several  were 
on  the  stage  and  had  made  arrangements  for 
coming  in  late  and  having  supper  left  out  for 
them,  but  had  not  taken  advantage  yet  of  these 
concessions,  since  they  had  not  been  in  engage- 
ments. There  were  other  women  who  were  look- 
ing out  for  work  of  any  kind.  For  them  the  days 
were  too  long. 

"It's  an  awful  life,  waiting  for  something  to 
turn  up,"  Poppy  told  Muriel,  as  they  sat  smok- 
ing and  chatting  one  evening  in  Muriel's  room. 
"So  much  sitting  about  after  meals  and  talking, 
just  because  you  haven't  anything  else  to  do. 
Some  of  'em  talk  and  talk  from  lunch  to  tea  and 
from  tea  to  dinner.  It's  Hke  being  on  a  ship 
where  you  just  fill  up  time  anyway,  only  then 
you've  got  the  end  of  the  voyage  to  look  forward 
to.  Here  this  sort  of  thing  may  go  on  all  our 
Kves." 

Muriel  had  resolved  upon  the  extravagance 
of  a  good-sized  room.  She  could  not,  after  the 
airy  spaciousness  of  Mrs.  Syrom's,  face  the  dis- 
comfort of  one  of  the  small,  cheap  rooms,  scarcely 
larger,  she  thought  disdainfully,  than  cupboards. 
So  she  had  a  big  room  on  the  third  floor  with  a 
lookout  on  to  a  garden  common  to  the  inhab- 
itants of  the  three  streets  which  formed  a  triangle 
round  it. 


120     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"Rather  a  lot  of  stairs,  eh?"  asked  Tanstead 
when  he  heard  about  it. 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  mind  that.  Why,  bless  you, 
there  are  two  floors  above  me.  It  was  a  crime  to 
build  houses  like  that.  Why  did  they  do  it? 
They  weren't  meant  for  boarding-houses,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"They  were  built  in  the  spacious  days  of 
Queen  Victoria,"  Tanstead  said.  "People  wanted 
big  houses  then.  Big  families  were  the  rule; 
eight,  ten,  twelve  children,  nothing  out  of  the 
way.  Homes  were  wanted  then,  not  just  places 
to  sleep  in,  with  scarcely  room  to  turn  around." 

"How  they  could  afford  to  live  in  these  bar- 
racks I  can't  think,"  Muriel  commented.  "And 
how  on  earth  did  they  get  servants?  Think  of  the 
poor  wretches  with  their  garrets  at  the  top  and 
their  underground  kitchens  and  all  those  stairs 
to  go  up  and  down." 

"I'm  not  at  aU  sure  that  everybody  wasn't  hap- 
pier then  than  we  are  now,"  said  Anne,  who  was 
of  the  party. 

"Don't  you  beUeve  it,"  said  Muriel  scornfully. 

"They  didn't  expect  so  much,  and  therefore 
they  weren't  so  often  disappointed,"  put  in  Tan- 
stead. 

"That's  what  I  meant,"  said  Anne. 

"But,  in  general,"  he  continued,  "I  doubt  if 
any  one  generation  has  ever  been  happier — that 
is  to  say,  more  contented — than  others." 

"I  think  we  are  far  happier  than  they  were — 
the  people  who  lived  in  these  appalling  houses, 
I  mean,"  Muriel  declared.    "Think  of  all  the 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     121 

things  they  were  afraid  of.  They  were  terrified 
of  death.  They  went  in  dread  of  not  having 
their  social  superiority  recognised.  They  were 
afraid  to  be  natural.  They  were  afraid  to  do 
anything  that  wasn't  done  by  everyone  else.  Oh, 
they  were  a  poisonous  lot,"  she  concluded  impa- 
tiently. 

Tanstead  looked  at  her  searchingly  as  if  he 
sought  to  discover  what  specially  caused  her  to 
pass  this  sweeping  unfavourable  judgment. 
Anne  saw  the  look  and  reflected,  "If  you  two 
ever  do  marry,  you'll  find  your  opinions  are  at 
opposite  poles  on  one  matter  at  least,  and  that 
a  very  important  matter  in  married  life." 

§  iv 

Anne  was  right,  Muriel  admitted  in  the  course 
of  that  hot  summer,  when  she  contended  that  hap- 
piness was  not  possible  to  those  who  expected  a 
great  deal  from  life. 

So  long  as  she  could  look  forward  with  pleas- 
ant anticipation,  Muriel  was  ready  to  enjoy 
everything  that  happened.  She  did  not  mind 
being  poor  when  she  was  reading  for  the  Bar  and 
could  fancy  herself,  in  a  future  not  very  far  dis- 
tant, winning  cases  in  the  courts  by  her  eloquence 
and  acumen.  Even  the  prospect  of  becoming  a 
barrister's  clerk  had  buoyed  her  up.  She  had 
been  satisfied  to  do  odds  and  ends  of  work  for 
Woman's  Sphere  so  long  as  it  seemed  possible 
they  might  "lead  to  something."  Now  there  was 
nothing  to  look  forward  to,  she  found  her  energy 


122    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

declining,  her  interests  weakened,  her  sky  clouded 
over. 

She  knew  that  a  holiday  filled  with  change  and 
bracing  air  and  exercise  would  bring  back  some 
of  her  buoyancy,  but  how  was  she  to  take  such 
a  holiday,  even  when  the  Long  Vacation  be- 
gan? Last  year  she  had  spent  several  weeks 
with  her  aunt  and  brothers  and  sisters  and  then 
put  in  a  fortnight  at  the  seaside  with  Anne. 
Neither  of  these  experiences  would  she  care  to 
repeat  this  year.  She  did  not  feel  that  they 
would  give  her  at  all  the  kind  of  change  she 
needed. 

She  would  like  to  see  new  places,  new  coun- 
tries, different  men  and  women.  She  would  like 
to  live  in  hotels,  to  eat  in  restaurants,  to  sit  out- 
side cafes  and  watch  the  flow  of  the  human 
stream.  These,  Tanstead  had  told  her,  were  the 
real  pleasures  of  travel.  She  wanted  to  hear  a 
strange  language  spoken  all  round  her,  to  make 
acquaintance  with  unfamiliar  customs.  It  was 
all,  she  reflected  with  bitterness,  hopelessly  be- 
yond her  reach. 

In  the  bank  she  had  rather  more  than  a  hun- 
dred pounds.  To  carry  out  the  programme  she 
imagined  would  swallow  them  all.  And  in  any 
case  she  had  determined  not  to  break  in  on  her 
savings  except  for  a  purpose  of  necessity.  With- 
out them  she  could  not  feel  secure.  So  she  set 
her  jaw  firmly  and  made  up  her  mind  to  "stick  it 
out,"  getting  what  consolation  she  could  from 
her  favourite  motto,  "After  all.  .  .  ." 

Tanstead,  however,  saw  his  opportunity  had 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     123 

come.  Again  in  a  restaurant  he  put  his  fate  to 
the  touch. 

"I  want  to  take  you  to  see  my  aunts,"  he  said, 
"my  mother's  sisters,  ahnost  the  only  relatives 
I've  got.    I  want  you  to  come  soon." 

"Why?"  asked  Muriel  surprised. 

"I  want  to  tell  them  we  are  going  to  be  mar- 
ried." 

"But  we  aren't,"  she  said,  not  with  much  con- 
viction. 

"I  think  we  are,"  he  said.  "We've  been  'keep- 
ing company'  long  enough.  You  want  a  holiday, 
a  long  one,  and  so  do  I.  And  I  want  a  home 
ever  so  badly." 

"But,"  she  objected  lamely,  "youVe  sprimg 
it  on  me  so  suddenly." 

"Suddenly!"  he  said.  "After  nearly  two 
years  f 

"Just  let  me  think,"  she  begged. 

"No,  you've  thought  long  enough.  It's  going 
to  be  some  day,  you  know  that.  Hadn't  it  much 
better  for  every  reason  be  now?" 

Muriel,  as  she  told  Anne  next  morning,  "let 
it  go  at  that." 


CHAPTER  X 


"I  THINK  you  ought  to  tell  him,"  persisted 
Anne. 

She  was  sitting  on  Muriel's  bed,  while  Muriel 
stood  before  the  looking-glass,  doing  her  hair, 
rather  more  carefully  than  usual,  for  Tanstead 
was  taking  her  and  Anne  and  Tony  to  the  thea- 
tre this  evening  by  way  of  celebrating  the  fruition 
of  his  patient  hopes. 

Muriel  did  not  see  Anne  so  constantly  now  as 
in  the  first  years  of  her  life  in  London.  If  mar- 
riages are,  as  Mims  had  said,  often  spoiled  by  a 
difference  in  the  sense  of  humour,  friendships  are 
not  seldom  broken  by  an  unequal  distribution  of 
vitality.  Muriel  with  her  robust  vigour  of  body 
and  mind,  her  nerves  steady,  her  untroubled  self- 
confidence,  seemed  to  Anne  to  be  unfairly  en- 
dowed, to  be  given  too  great  an  advantage. 

Anne  liked  her,  admired  her,  was  interested 
in  her,  enjoyed  being  with  her,  yet  she  was  fre- 
quently moved  to  envy  and  irritation.  Muriel 
had  never  worked  hard,  never  taken  a  great  deal 
of  trouble  over  anything,  yet  she  got  far  more 
out  of  life  than  Anne  ever  had  or  ever  would. 
She  was  so  .  .  .  so  .  .  .  Anne  couldn't  quite  hit 

upon  the  epithet  she  wanted.    "Serene"  came  as 

124 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     125 

near  to  it  as  any  word  she  could  think  of.  Muriel 
accepted  good  fortune  as  if  she  had  a  right  to 
it;  when  luck  went  against  her,  she  was  in  no 
danger  of  losing  heart,  she  slept  no  less  soundly, 
ate  with  good  appetite,  felt  sure  something  would 
turn  up.  .  .  .  And  something  always  did. 

Anne  had  never  been  worried  by  failure,  nor 
by  fear  of  it.  She  had  an  aptitude  for  satisfying 
examiners,  and  had  never  set  herself  to  do  any- 
thing else.  But  she  knew  well  that  if  things  went 
awry  with  her,  instead  of  going  smoothly,  monot- 
onously, as  she  felt  they  always  would,  she  would 
be  in  a  stew  of  anxiety,  she  would  suffer  misery, 
she  would  not  know  which  way  to  turn.  Even 
now  she  sometimes  felt  a  cold  nausea  at  the 
thought  of  a  possibility  of  law-courts  being  done 
away  with,  as  it  seemed  they  had  been  in  Russia. 
So  long  as  there  remained  intact  the  system  which 
she  knew  and  into  which  she  fitted,  she  was  con- 
vinced that  she  could  keep  her  place  in  it.  If 
that  were  to  be  broken  up,  she  would  be  adrift 
on  a  waste  of  terrifying  waters. 

Muriel  had  no  idea  of  the  cause  of  Anne's 
irritability.  She  noticed  sometimes  that  her 
friend  spoke  curtly,  and  seemed  to  have,  as  she 
put  it  tolerantly,  "a  pain  in  her  temper."  She 
was  aware  that  Anne  had  not  the  same  over- 
flowing energy  as  filled  her  own  frame  and  she 
made  in  her  large,  comprehending  way  all  allow- 
ances for  her,  putting  her  occasional  ill  humour 
down  to  physical  causes,  or  to  a  bout  of  hard 
work.  Anne  had  been  "called"  some  little  time 
now.    She  had  not  joined  Muriel's  employers  in 


126     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

their  chambers,  she  shared  a  set  with  two  other 
women  barristers  and  had  got  several  briefs  al- 
ready; her  handling  of  one  of  them  won  a  com- 
pliment from  the  Bench  upon  her  complete 
knowledge  of  the  law  concerned,  and  of  all  the 
precedents  to  be  relied  upon. 

As  she  sat  upon  the  bed  and  watched  Muriel 
at  the  looking-glass,  Anne  was  divided  between 
pleasure  and  annoyance.  The  pleasure  she  de- 
rived from  the  slim  yet  strong  young  figure,  the 
shapely  arms  raised  in  a  graceful  pose  to  the 
head,  the  thick  dark  ripphng  hair  which  was  being 
coaxed  into  orderly  shape.  Her  annoyance  arose 
from  a  presentiment  that  Tanstead  would  not 
find  in  Muriel  what  he  expected,  and  a  feeling 
that  it  was  unfair  for  one  woman  to  get  hold  of  a 
husband  on  false  pretences,  while  another  who 
could  have  fallen  in  with  his  long-cherished  wishes 
about  a  "home"  was  passed  over.  Muriel  had 
admitted  the  unfairness  herself,  and  had  added  to 
Anne's  bitterness  by  a  shaft  of  humour  which 
left  a  sore  place.  As  she  dressed  for  dinner  and 
the  theatre  and  Anne  sat  on  her  bed,  they  had 
talked  of  marriage  generally  as  well  as  this  par- 
ticular marriage  which  was  in  prospect,  and 
Muriel  had  recalled  her  old  determination  not 
to  marry. 

"But  that  was  when  I  had  a  profession  in 
view,"  she  said,  "that  would  have  made  all  the 
difference." 

She  did  not  say  it  with  self-pity  or  with  inten- 
tion to  be  pathetic  over  her  change  of  fortune. 
There  was  hardly  even  regret  in  her  tone.    She 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     127 

looked  forward  always,  instead  of  back.  She  did 
not  indulge  fancies  of  "what  might  have  been," 
not  that  she  deliberately  checked  them,  they  did 
not  enter  her  healthy,  matter-of-fact  mind. 

"D'you  mean  you  wouldn't  have  encouraged 
Tanstead  if  you'd  been  at  the  Bar?"  Anne  said. 

"Don't  say  'encouraged'  like  that,"  protested 
Muriel.  "You  make  it  sound  as  if  I  had  prac- 
tised the  wiles  of  the  boarding-house  siren,  and 
lured  the  poor  man  on.  The  truth  is  I  did  all 
I  could  to  discourage  him.  If  I'd  gone  on  as 
I  started,  I  should  probably  never  have  come 
across  him." 

"He  would  not  admit  that.  His  idea  is  that 
you  are  the  one  woman  in  the  world  for  him, 
and  that  he  would  have  found  you  out  somehow, 
wherever  you  had  been." 

"M'yes,"  said  Muriel  with  a  coil  of  her  hair 
in  her  mouth.    "I  wonder." 

"You  don't  feel  anything  of  that  kind  about 
him?"  Anne  inquired  after  a  short  silence. 

Muriel  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"No,  and  I  don't  think  the  feeling  goes  down 
very  deep  with  him.  Men  have  that  sort  of 
capacity  for  deceiving  themselves.  They  enjoy 
it.  The  funny  thing  is,"  Muriel  went  on  re- 
flectively, "they  have  an  ideal  *one  woman  in 
the  world,'  and  the  woman  they  pick  out  is  often 
quite  unlike  that  ideal,  yet  they  can't  see  it.  They 
persist  in  decorating  her  with  all  the  qualities 
they  hope  to  find  in  her,  with  all  the  charms  and 
virtues  of  their  ideal  'one  woman,'  to  whom  she 
mayn't  bear  the  faintest  resemblance;  and  when 


128     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

they  find  out  that  she  doesn't,  they  consider 
they've  been  defrauded.  As  if  it  weren't  their 
own  silly  fault." 

"What  is  Tanstead's  ideal,  then?" 

"The  trouble  is,  I'm  not  altogether  sure,"  said 
Muriel,  smiling  at  herself  in  the  hand-mirror  she 
was  using  in  order  to  judge  of  the  effect  of  her 
effort.     "I  don't  think  that  I'm  much  like  it." 

"His  ideas  all  turn  on  making  and  enjoying  a 
home,  don't  they?" 

Muriel  nodded. 

"I  don't  seem  to  fill  the  bill  in  that  line,  do 
I?"  she  asked.  "It's  you  he  ought  to  marry 
really,  Anne.  I  used  to  think  you  were  posing 
when  you  talked  about  that  sort  of  thing, 
but  I'm  sure  now  that  you'd  do  it  awfully  well 
and  enjoy  it.  Children  and  all  that,  I 
mean." 

Anne  said  nothing. 

"There  ought  to  be  examinations  for  mar- 
riage," Muriel  declared.  "You'd  come  out  near 
the  top,  of  course,  as  usual." 

This  was  the  arrow  which  left  a  rankhng 
wound. 

"Are  your  views  about  children  unaltered?" 
Anne  asked  in  a  voice  with  a  little  rasp  of  resent- 
ment in  it. 

"Haven't  seen  any  reason  to  change  them." 

"Then  I  think  you  ought  to  tell  him,"  Anne 
said  firmly. 

Muriel  looked  round  at  her,  evidently  sur- 
prised. 

"You  don't  really?"  she  questioned. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     129 

"Yes,  I  do,"  replied  Anne.  "It  wouldn't  be 
fair  not  to  tell  him." 

"But  he  might  back  out,"  said  Muriel,  with  a 
little  smihng  grimace;  "and  he's  promised  to 
take  me  to  Sweden.  I  want  to  go  to  Sweden 
awfully.  They're  so  tremendously  advanced 
there.  I  might  tell  him  when  we  get  back,"  she 
suggested  mischievously,  "and  offer  to  let  him 
off  if  he  felt  disappointed." 

"You'll  have  trouble  if  you  don't  make  it  clear 
to  him  now,"  Anne  told  her  grimly. 

"But,  my  good  soul,"  remonstrated  Muriel, 
treating  Anne's  protest  seriously  at  last,  "it's 
always  the  woman  who  decides  that  sort  of  thing, 
isn't  it?  Men  don't  want  famihes.  They  bear 
with  them  if  they  come ;  they  endure  them.  It's 
always  the  maternal  instinct  you  hear  talked 
about,  never  the  paternal.  I  don't  believe  there's 
any  such  thing  as  a  paternal  instinct." 

"That's  only  because  you  don't  happen  to  have 
come  across  it,"  Anne  persisted. 

"I've  never  even  heard  of  it." 

"That  doesn't  settle  the  matter.  Plenty  of 
things  exist  that  you  haven't  heard  of." 

"Oh,  very  well,  if  you  think  it's  so  important 
as  all  that,  I'll  speak  to  him  about  it,"  Muriel 
said. 

Anne  stood  up,  shook  out  her  skirt,  looked 
down  at  her  feet.  She  had  carried  her  point,  but 
she  felt  now  a  misgiving.  What  could  it  matter 
to  her?  And  it  might  break  off  the  match,  which 
was,  she  admitted,  a  good  way  for  Muriel  out  of 
her  unsatisfactory  occupations,  which  offered  her 


130     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

no  prospect  of  anything  like  a  career,  and  not 
much  more  than  a  hving  in  the  way  of  gains.  She 
felt  sorry  she  had  let  her  irritation  sting  her  into 
pressing  Muriel  so  hard. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "it*s  for  you  to  decide. 
If  you  don't  think  it's  necessary  ...  I  dare  say 
you  know  best." 

"Why  were  you  so  hot  about  it  then?"  Muriel 
asked  her  in  astonishment. 

"I  thought  .  .  .  well,  I  thought  you  might  be 
sorry  later  on  if  you  didn't  teU  him." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  Muriel  said,  as  she  jabbed  in 
her  last  hatpin,  "I'd  better,  at  all  events,  give  him 
a  hint." 

§ii 

On  the  top  of  an  omnibus,  as  they  took  the  air 
in  the  dusk  of  what  had  been  a  stifling  day,  came 
the  opportunity  for  Muriel's  hint. 

On  the  seat  in  front  of  them  was  a  woman 
with  a  boy  about  a  year  old.  For  a  time  the  child 
showed  his  satisfaction  by  sudden  shouts  into 
which  he  put  all  the  strength  of  his  small  lungs. 
Then  he  took  oflPence  at  not  being  allowed  to 
turn  round  and  claw  at  Tanstead's  moustache, 
which  Tanstead,  indeed,  was,  for  his  part,  quite 
ready  to  permit,  but  which  the  mother  resolutely 
prevented  by  taking  the  child  on  her  knee. 
Thereat  he  howled,  was  smacked,  howled  louder 
than  before. 

"I  couldn't  stand  that  sort  of  thing,"  Muriel 
said  after  the  mother  had  gone  down  with  the 
still  squalling  infant  under  her  arm. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     131 

"Eh?  No,  no.  Didn*t  know  how  to  manage 
him." 

"A  horrid  little  beast !    On  a  hot  evening,  too." 

"Children  don't  cry  if  they're  healthy  and 
properly  managed,"  Tanstead  said  soothingly. 

"Anjrway,  I  couldn't  stand  them,"  she  re- 
peated, and  felt  that  she  had  now  made  herself 
clear. 

§  iii 

Love,  as  the  word  is  understood  when  we  apply 
it  to  the  feelings  of  an  engaged  young  man  and 
woman,  offers  a  sound  basis  for  happy  married 
relations,  so  it  be  combined  with  a  liking  for  each 
other's  companionship.  Without  that  hking, 
which  may  be  called  more  shortly  friendship,  love 
is  likely  to  fail  them,  and  to  cause  the  state  of 
mutual  irritation  known  as  "getting  on  one  an- 
other's nerves."  Friendship,  on  the  contrary, 
may  serve  by  itself,  on  the  woman's  side  at  any 
rate,  as  an  enduring  foundation  for  happiness  in 
marriage.  A  wife  who  finds  her  husband  com- 
panionable is  likely  to  grow  into  a  lasting  affec- 
tion for  him.  Seldom  does  a  wife  who  has  mar- 
ried on  "love"  alone  succeed  in  establishing  the 
friendly  relation. 

That  was,  shortly  stated,  Muriel's  philosophy 
of  marriage,  and  she  now  found  her  theory  jus- 
tified by  her  own  experience.  She  had  felt 
certain  that  too  much  attention  was  given  by 
unthinking  minds  to  one  aspect  of  marriage, 
and  that  the  companionship  side  was  really  by 
far  the  more  important.    After  all,  the  greater 


132     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

part  of  life  was  companionship.  Interests  in 
common,  similarity  of  tastes,  an  agreement  as 
to  what  was  laughable,  surely  these  must  be  the 
solid  foundation  of  contentment  in  marriage.  If 
these  were  absent,  "love,"  no  matter  how  ardent, 
could  only  suffice  if  husband  and  wife  saw  each 
other  seldom,  if  they  avoided  companionship,  and 
lived  on  the  terms  which  are  those  of  the  harem. 

It  would  be  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  Muriel 
had  misgivings  before  she  married.  She  ap- 
proached the  event  with  the  same  serene  confi- 
dence, the  result  mainly  of  perfect  digestion  and 
steady  nerves,  that  had  carried  her  comfortably 
through  other  vicissitudes.  She  knew  Tanstead 
pretty  thoroughly,  she  told  herself,  and  had  found 
nothing  in  him  to  dislike  or  shrink  from.  She 
had  a  respect  for  his  judgment,  admiration  for 
his  capability.  These  she  felt  to  be  necessary. 
She  could  not  have  even  considered  marrying 
anyone  like  Tony.  Much  as  she  liked  him,  she 
could  never  take  him  seriously,  as  she  put  it; 
never  attach  any  weight  to  his  opinions.  She 
would  always  reckon  herself  superior  to  him  in 
intellect.  There  would  be  no  real  companionship 
between  them.  When  they  had  wearied  of  mock- 
ing at  the  world  and  the  himian  race,  especially 
the  more  pompous  and  pretentious  members  of 
it,  they  would  be  at  a  loss  for  anything  to  talk 
about. 

In  the  last  year  or  so  Muriel  and  Tony  had 
not  been  so  frequently  together.  There  was  no 
cooling  of  their  enjoyment  of  each  other's  soci- 
ety, but   Tony  had   noticed   that   Muriel  and 


[THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     133 

Tanstead  were  drawing  nearer  together;  he  ex- 
perienced both  a  certain  loneliness  and  a  certain 
resentment.  He  was  incapable  of  jealousy,  but 
he  did  think  it  rather  hard  that  these  clever  chaps 
should  win  aU  round.  If  Tanstead  was  going  to 
make  a  big  name  at  the  Bar  and  get  a  judgeship, 
he  ought  to  be  satisfied  with  any  kind  of  a  wife. 
It  wasn't  fair  that  he  should  pick  out  and  carry 
off  the  rippingest  girl  in  London.  He  had  so 
much  else.  To  Tony,  Muriel  represented  all 
that  raised  existence  above  the  level  of  the  com- 
monplace; losing  her,  he  seemed  in  his  more  senti- 
mental hours  to  have  nothing  to  look  forward  to, 
nothing  to  hope.  Yet  when,  at  last,  he  knew  for 
certain  that  he  had  lost  her,  he  recovered  his 
spirits  a  little.  He  told  himself  that  he  was 
making  an  effort  to  be  cheerful  for  her  sake; 
he  must  not  let  her  see  that  he  was  unhappy; 
that  might  cloud  her  happiness.  But,  in  truth, 
he  had  begun  to  understand  that,  married  to 
Muriel,  he  would  have  had  to  make  a  constant 
effort  to  appear  more  intelligent  than  he  really 
was  in  order  to  escape  her  scornful  sarcasm. 

"Cheer  up,  Tony,"  she  said,  meeting  him  one 
day  in  the  Temple  and  laughing  at  the  solemn 
air  with  which  he  shook  hands,  "cheer  up,  the 
worst  is  yet  to  come." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  he  answered  her  glumly,  and 
then  the  old  merriment  lit  up  his  eyes,  and 
he  began  to  talk  in  his  usual  tone.  She  told 
him  of  the  flat  Tanstead  had  taken,  and  the  fur- 
niture they  were  picking  up,  and  her  plans  based 
still  on  William  Morris's  precept — "nothing  that 


134     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

you  don't  either  find  useful  or  think  beautiful" 
^-and  the  decorations  she  had  planned. 

"You  do  wish  me  luck,  Tony,  don't  you?"| 
she  asked  when  they  parted,  with  a  shade  of  wist- 
fulness  in  her  tone. 

"Of  course  I  do,  old  bean,"  he  said  heartily. 
"I  dare  say  it's  aU  for  the  best — ^you  know  what 
I  mean." 

"And  if  it  isn't  for  the  best,"  she  returned  gaily, 
"it'll  all  be  the  same  in  a  thousand  years." 

But  the  honeymoon  inclined  her  more  than 
ever  to  think  that  Tony  was  right,  that  she  had 
done  wisely  to  marry,  that  she  and  Tanstead 
yreie  going  to  "hit  it  off  top-hole." 

§  iv 

They  went  to  Sweden  through  Berlin,  where 
Muriel,  in  spite  of  her  desire  to  make  the  best  of 
the  Germans  (a  frame  of  mind  induced  in  her,  as 
in  most  intelligent  persons,  by  the  silly  vitupera- 
tion of  that  People  after  the  war),  could  not 
find  much  to  admire.  The  perfection  of  order 
and  cleanliness  which  reigned  under  the  mon- 
archy had  gone;  that,  Tanstead  told  her,  had 
made  most  people  find  Berlin  for  twenty-four 
hours  or  so  a  delightful  city,  though  they  usually 
discovered  at  the  end  of  this  period  that  it  had 
no  enduring  attractiveness.  Now  it  made  not 
even  a  twenty-four-hour  impression.  Its  streets 
lacked  variety,  its  buildings  expressed  only  a 
spirit  of  mechanical  efficiency,  were  entirely  with- 
out charm. 

"You'd  like  Munich,  though,"  Tanstead  told 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     135 

her.  "You  have  to  go  south  to  get  the  best  of 
the  German  character.  One  day  we'll  do  that, 
go  to  some  of  those  joUy  httle  lakeside  hohday 
places — summer-fresheners,  they  call  them,  and 
do  some  walks  in  the  Bavarian  highlands." 

But  now  their  faces  were  turned  northwards. 
They  went  by  the  great  ferry  which  carries  a 
whole  train  across  the  Baltic  Sea,  and  Muriel's 
eyes  opened  first  upon  Sweden  by  dayhght  when 
she  woke  up  in  Stockholm.  The  glitter  and 
gaieties  of  the  city  of  many  waters  charmed  them. 
The  freshness  of  the  air,  the  vigorous  aspect  of 
the  people,  the  tidiness  and  regularity  of  their 
ways,  the  pleasant  food  they  ate — especially  the 
smorgasbord,  a  collection  of  most  tempting  appe- 
tisers with  bread  like  biscuit,  and  the  most  de- 
licious butter — filled  Muriel  for  a  few  days  with 
contentment.  But  after  a  few  days  she  found  it 
not  so  easy  as  she  had  expected  to  discover  signs 
that  the  Swedes  were  "tremendously  advanced" 
and,  as  a  hotel  acquaintance  told  her  that  the 
really  progressive  people  of  the  North  were  the 
Finns,  she  suggested  crossing  to  Finland.  Tan- 
stead  agreed  at  once. 

Helsingfors  pleased  them  even  better  than 
Stockholm.  It  was  as  clean  and  airy  as  the 
Swedish  capital,  the  women  had  the  same  open- 
air  look,  and  with  it  went  a  freer  bearing;  both 
men  and  women  of  the  educated  sort  seemed  to 
radiate  intelligence.  They  made  some  acquaint- 
ances through  a  Finnish  advocate  upon  whom 
Tanstead  called.  All  spoke  English,  all  were 
familiar  with  the  books,  plays  and  music  of  Eng- 


136     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

land  as  well  as  with  those  of  Germany.  They 
were  delighted  to  get  up  musical  evenings,  to 
take  the  visitors  to  painters'  and  sculptors'  stu- 
dios, to  show  in  public  and  private  buildings  the 
growth  of  their  forceful,  and  at  times  brutal, 
modern  architecture. 

Here  Muriel  admitted  real  "advancement." 
She  saw  equality  between  men  and  women  in 
operation.  She  rejoiced  over  the  absence  of 
"stuify  prejudice,"  and  of  any  public  opinion 
manufactured  for  the  purpose  of  forcing  all  to 
live  by  the  same  formula.  She  noticed  with  sur- 
prise that  organised  religion  had  lost  its  hold — 
or  perhaps  never  had  any  hold — upon  people 
famous  for  honesty,  true  and  just  in  all  their 
dealings,  hard  workers,  and  strong  in  self-re- 
spect. The  simplicity  of  life,  gained  by  a  disre- 
gard of  elaborate  furnishings  in  their  houses  and 
the  rejecting  of  the  unnecessary  and  the  ostenta- 
tious from  their  meals,  made  Muriel  feel  that 
at  last  she  was  among  people  who  could  distin- 
guish between  the  essential  elements  of  well-being 
and  those  which  were  dictated  by  conventionality 
or  tradition. 

Tanstead  shared  her  enjoyment  of  a  week's 
stay  at  a  seaside  place  near  the  capital,  of  a  visit 
to  the  waterfall  of  Imatra,  of  days  spent  in  about 
among  the  little  islands  near  Helsingfors,  and 
he  was  ready  to  accept  the  Finns  at  his  wife's 
valuation,  though  he  smiled  quietly  sometimes 
at  her  enthusiasm.  She  would  not  have  resented 
his  smile  if  she  had  seen  it,  for  she  basked  in  a 
sense  of  perfect  understanding  between  them. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     137 

On  an  evening  when  the  glittering  shp  of  a  new 
moon  was  first  seen,  and  the  peace  of  the  islands 
laid  its  enchantment  upon  them  both,  she  leaned 
to  him  and  took  his  face  in  her  hands  and  said, 
"I  wonder  if  you  know  how  much  I  am  grateful 
to  you  for  all  this,"  and  kissed  him — the  first 
kiss  she  had  offered  of  her  own  accord.  He  re- 
turned it  with  rapture. 

Their  understanding  seemed  perfect  then  to 
him  also.  Neither  suspected  how  wide  of  the 
mark  both  were. 


CHAPTER  XI 

§i 

Tanstead  was  like  nearly  all  men  of  his  upbring- 
ing and  education :  he  knew  next  to  nothing  about 
women.  Few  Englishmen,  whatever  their  rank 
of  Hfe,  do. 

All  the  Germanic  races  idealise  women,  fancy 
that  women  are  easy  to  understand,  blunder 
clumsily  when  difficulties  arise.  This  is  seen 
equally  among  the  Saxons,  the  Anglo-Saxons,  the 
Americans,  and  in  a  less  degree,  according  as 
they  have  Germanic  ancestry,  among  the  Scan- 
dinavian nations.  The  Celtic  races,  above  aU 
the  Irish  and  the  French,  do  understand  women ; 
they  have  no  illusions  about  them,  therefore  they 
do  not  irritate  them  after  the  Saxon  fashion. 
Relations  between  men  and  women  in  France 
are  on  the  plane  of  logic  rather  than  sentiment. 
In  Ireland  there  is  a  strong  tendency  in  this 
direction.  Neither  husbands  nor  wives  expect 
so  much  of  one  another;  they  are  not,  in  con- 
sequence, so  often  disappointed. 

The  English  husband  is  probably  harder  to 
please  than  any.  His  sentimental  reading  of 
married  life  makes  him  suppose  vaguely  that 
there  is  an  immensity  of  satisfaction  in  it  of  a 
nature  which  he  does  not  and  cannot  specify. 
So  long  as  girls  were  taught  that  the  chief  end 

138 


.THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     139 

of  woman  was  to  serve  and  glorify  man,  which 
was  the  teaching  of  the  Victorian  Age,  the  Eng- 
lish husband  was  able,  as  a  rule,  to  beheve  that 
his  expectation  had  been  fulfilled.  That  was  the 
age  of  dutiful  wives,  wives  who  accepted  their 
husbands'  ruhngs,  wives  who  suppressed  them- 
selves and  were  able  by  submission,  by  careful 
study  of  mood,  by  feminine  anxiety  to  please,  to 
create  the  illusion  that  they  loved  their  mates, 
even  when  they  only  feared  and  obeyed  them. 

Mims  had  been  of  this  order  of  wives.  She 
had  grown,  as  most  of  them  did,  whether  they 
had  loved  at  any  period  or  not,  into  a  sincere 
and  radiant  affection  for  her  husband.  She  had 
made  of  necessity  not  merely  a  virtue,  but  an 
art.  Her  daughter  looked  on  marriage  in  an 
entirely  different  light. 

Muriel  fancied  that  Tanstead  shared  her  view 
of  it,  because  he  had  agreed  at  once  to  her  pro- 
posal that  they  should  be  married  in  a  registry 
office.  He  had  few  relations,  so  he  could  settle 
the  matter  off-hand.  His  father  and  mother  were 
dead ;  he  was  one  of  three  brothers,  and  the  other 
two  were  in  far  corners  of  the  earth.  An  uncle, 
a  priest,  had  been  very  good  to  him,  up  to  the 
time  he  went  to  the  university;  then  the  uncle 
had  taken  up  mission  work,  and  had  since  be- 
come a  missionary  bishop  in  Patagonia.  The 
Bishop's  sisters,  three  old  ladies  who  lived  to- 
gether, Muriel  had  been  taken  to  see.  They  re- 
ceived her  with  enthusiasm,  but  they  were  so 
anxious  to  entertain  her  and  their  nephew 
with  hospitable  affection  that  they  made  intelli- 


140    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

gent,  even  consecutive  conversation  impossible. 
One,  for  example,  would  ask  her  a  question; 
she  would  be  about  to  answer  it  when  another 
would  break  in  with  a  proposal  that  she  should 
have  some  more  of  something  on  the  table.  This 
would  stimulate  the  other  two  to  urge  this  or 
something  else  upon  her,  and  by  the  time  the 
storm  of  hospitaUty  had  blown  over,  the  informa- 
tion she  was  about  to  give  would  be  entirely  for- 
gotten. 

Or  else  they  would  suddenly,  while  one  or 
other  of  their  guests  was  relating  to  them  news 
or  family  history  which  they  had  professed  a 
desire  to  know,  fall  to  arguing  among  themselves 
over  some  detail  of  the  serving  or  the  food.  Such 
an  eruption  was  caused  by  one  of  the  aunts  no- 
ticing that  Muriel  had  not  eaten  any  bread. 

"Such  a  pity!  Almost  always  have  our  bread 
made  at  home,  so  much  nicer,  different  altogether. 
Just  to-day  it  happens  that  we  have  baker's 
bread.    It  is  because  the  cook " 

An  explanation  followed  which  was  at  once 
contradicted  by  another  aunt,  who  gave  her  ac- 
count of  the  circumstances  that  had  prevented 
bread-baking  at  home,  the  third  aunt  cutting  into 
this  with  still  another  view.  Amid  the  long 
wrangle  neither  Muriel's  asseveration  that  she 
scarcely  ever  ate  bread  at  lunch  or  dinner,  nor 
Tanstead's  recital  of  the  points  of  interest  in  the 
last  letter  of  the  Bishop,  their  brother,  received 
any  attention  whatever. 

Tanstead,  having  no  relations  to  consider,  had 
fallen  in  at  once  with  the  registry  office  plan. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     141 

He  had  also,  as  Muriel  argued,  shown  that  he 
was  in  substantial  agreement  with  her  by  letting 
pass  her  assertion  that  "people  talked  a  great 
deal  of  tosh  above  love,  and  were  apt  to  forget 
that  the  chief  thing  in  marriages  was  companion- 
ship," as  well  as  her  statement  that  she  "couldn't 
stand  that  sort  of  thing"  on  the  top  of  the  omni- 
bus after  the  departure  of  the  troublesome  child. 

But  she  was  not  old  in  wedlock  before  she  dis- 
covered that  her  husband  had  cherished  an  an- 
cient and  widespread  delusion:  he  had  supposed 
that,  although  she  was  not  in  love  with  him  when 
she  married  (this  she  had  made  clear) ,  she  would 
quickly  yield  to  and  reciprocate  his  passion.  He 
made  the  mistake  of  imagining  such  changes  to 
be  common  because  he  had  read  of  them  in  novels. 
He  knew  that  in  all  particulars  which  he  could 
check  from  his  own  experience  or  knowledge 
novehsts  were  generally  misleading,  either 
through  ignorance  or  through  deliberate  distor- 
tion. Yet  in  those  matters  of  which  he  himself 
was  ignorant  he  was  ready  to  believe  them! 

When  he  found  out  that  Muriel  was  not  going, 
so  far  as  he  could  judge,  to  do  as  the  wives-who- 
had-married-without-being-in-love  did  in  novels, 
he  did  not  even  then  discard  the  novelist's  theory. 
He  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  up 
against  an  exception  to  the  general  rule ;  he  began 
to  ask  himself  pathetically  why  on  earth  this 
should  have  happened  to  him  of  all  men,  and 
what  could  be  done  to  induce  in  Muriel  the  in- 
loveness  for  which  he  sought  in  vain. 

He  would  have  been  content  with  a  little. 


142    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

That  evening  on  the  water  near  Helsingf  ors  had 
filled  him  with  rapture.  He  thought  the  change 
had  come.  But  he  had  been  forced  to  realise 
that  Muriel's  kiss  was  prompted  by  gratitude, 
not  by  any  more  ardent  emotion.  He  was  not 
by  temperament  ardent  himself.  An  occasional 
repetition  of  that  unasked-for  caress  would  have 
persuaded  him  that  he  had  found  all  he  expected 
in  marriage.  But  it  was  not  repeated.  Muriel, 
as  a  companion,  gave  him  everything  that  he 
could  wish;  all  that  he  missed  in  her  was  the 
responsive  affection  which  seemed  to  him  to  be 
necessary  in  a  wife.  Their  flat  was  as  pleasant 
and  comfortable  as  he  had  hoped  it  would  be, 
and  Muriel  was  the  most  attractive  piece  of  fur- 
niture it  contained;  but  he  felt  that  until  it  had 
children  in  it  it  would  never  be  a  home. 


To  shake  her  resolve  by  argument  was  impos- 
sible. 

"My  dear  Edward,"  she  would  say,  "if  both 
instinct  and  reason  are  against  one's  taking  a 
certain  course,  surely  it  is  clear  that  one  would 
be  a  fool  to  risk  it." 

"Instinct?"  he  said,  with  some  scorn,  and  some 
curiosity  in  his  voice,  the  first  time  she  called  in 
aid  this  ally. 

"Yes,  instinct.  Haven't  you  noticed  that 
women  have  altered  since  hfe  got  so  complicated, 
since  we've  moved  so  far  away  from  the  old  sim- 
pler ways?" 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     143 

"It  hasn't  got  more  complicated.  That's  sim- 
ply talk." 

"But  of  course  it's  more  complicated.  Who 
was  it  said  that  our  particular  kind  of  civilisa- 
tion, the  industrial,  mechanical  kind,  makes 
things  easier  in  many  ways  on  the  surface — ^you 
know,  telephones  and  motors  and  aeroplanes  and 
so  on — but  makes  everything  below  the  surface 
more  difficult?  I  know  I've  read  that  some- 
where." 

"Doesn't  make  it  true,"  Tanstead  muttered. 

"No,  but  it  is  true,  you  know.  I've  often 
thought  about  it.  This  business  of  children,  for 
instance.  To  start  with,  the  physical  difficulties 
are  much  greater.  There  must  have  been  a  time 
when  it  was  as  easy  and  simple  for  women  as  it 
is  for  animals.  There  are  plenty  of  women  like 
that  still — uncivilised  we  call  them ;  but  wherever 
there's  civilisation  to  any  extent,  it  becomes  far 
more  disagreeable  and  painful  and  disabling. 
That  creates  an  instinct  against  it,  for  it's  well 
known  that  the  healthy  body  hates  the  idea  of 
sickness  and  suffering.  In  the  old  days  there 
wasn't  any  pain — no  more  than  there  is  among 
animals.  As  life  grew  more  civilised,  that's  to 
say,  more  artificial,  there  came  more  and  more, 
and  there  grew  up  a  repulsion  to  it  instead  of  a 
state  of  mind  which  regarded  it  as  a  purely  nat- 
ural process. 

"And  that  isn't  all,"  Muriel  went  on.  "You've 
got  to  add  to  that  the  increased  uncertainty  of 
things.  It  isn't  fair  to  bring  children  into  the 
world  unless  you  can  give  them  a  decent  chance." 


n 


144    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"My  dear  girl,  how  often  have  you  argued  that 
everyone  ought  to  have  the  same  chance,  and 
that  all  advantages  are  unfair?  Why,  you've 
even  said  it  was  a  positive  handicap,  instead  of 
an  advantage,  not  to  be  obUged  to  make  your 
own  way  from  the  start." 

"Am  I  inconsistent?"  quoted  Muriel,  smiling, 
for  their  discussions  were  as  yet  on  the  plane  of 
good  temper.  "Very  well,  then,  I  am  incon- 
sistent." I 

"Health  is  the  main  thing,  and  as  for  educa- 
tion, I'll  answer  for  that." 

"Can  you  answer  for  anything  in  these  times?" 
Muriel  asked.    "Look  at  Russia." 

"We  haven't  a  Tsar." 

"And  even  about  health,  we  can't  be  sure, 
we're  so  over-civilised,  our  nervous  systems  aren't 
normal." 

Tanstead  gave  up  argument.  He  saw  that  it 
only  made  her  more  obstinately  resolved.  He 
decided  that  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  be 
patient  in  the  hope  that  the  change  he  still  hoped 
for  might  happen  even  yet. 

Still  relying  upon  the  novelists,  he  told  him- 
self that  if  he  could  only  stir  her  feeling  for  him 
to  in-loveness  the  other  matter  would  settle  itself. 
For  a  long  time  he  was  fairly  content  to  wait. 
It  was  infinitely  more  pleasant  to  get  back  to  his 
flat  at  the  end  of  the  day's  work  than  to  stay  in 
chambers  until  dinner-time,  and  then  to  dine  at 
a  club,  the  prey  of  bores.  His  evenings,  whether 
they  were  spent  at  home,  Muriel  and  he  playing 
piquet  which  she  had  taught  him,  or  Muriel  read- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     145 

ing  aloud,  which  she  liked  doing  and  did  well,  or 
he  at  the  piano,  no  great  performer,  but  able 
to  give  himself  pleasure  and  to  amuse  her  too; 
or  whether  they  went  out  to  theatre,  concert,  din- 
ner-party, made  him  look  back  on  his  evenings 
with  a  magazine  at  the  club  with  thankful  relief 
at  his  escape  from  such  dullness.  In  every  re- 
spect but  the  one  Muriel  was  all  that  he  could 
wish  her  to  be. 

§  iii 

He  even  got  help  from  her  in  his  work.  Dur- 
ing the  second  year  of  their  life  together  she 
began  to  feel  the  want  of  some  fresh  occupations 
and  interest.  Often,  when  she  went  to  bed,  he 
would  set  to  work  for  two  or  three  hours,  some- 
times more,  upon  his  briefs.  He  was  beginning 
to  feel  the  strain  which  must  be  borne  by  every 
man  who  makes  a  name  and  a  fortune  at  the 
Bar.  He  had  got  into  the  front  rank  of 
"juniors,"  Steady  hard  work  would  give  him 
in  a  few  years  an  income  of  several  thousands 
a  year. 

One  night  Muriel  felt  suddenly  sorry  for  him 
when  he  was  going  off  to  his  study  after  he  had 
kissed  her  cheek  and  wished  her  sound  sleep. 
( This  late  working  habit  of  his  had  made  it  easy 
for  her  to  arrange  separate  rooms,  only  separated 
by  a  door,  but  ensuring  a  certain  privacy  for 
which  she  was  grateful.) 

"Poor  old  thing!"  she  said.  "I'm  sure  you 
don't  feel  like  work.  I  saw  you  yawning  just 
now." 


146     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

*'No,  I  don't  much.  Can't  be  helped  though. 
I  must  go  through  the  papers  in  that  Hurtstone 
case.    It's  sure  to  be  taken  next  week." 

"I  say,  I've  got  an  idea." 

He  turned  at  the  door,  surprised  by  the  energy 
of  her  exclamation. 

"Couldn't  you  let  me  help  you?  I  could  plug 
through  all  the  papers  and  give  you  the  points. 
You  might  have  to  glance  over  them  after- 
wards, but  that  wouldn't  take  anything  like  so 
long." 

"No,  don't  you  bother." 

"But  I  should  Uke  it.  You  see,  the  reading 
I  did  might  help  me  a  little — ^not  a  great  deal,  I 
know  that,  but  it's  better  than  nothing.  And 
in  time  I  really  might  be  of  some  use." 

"Well,  some  day,  perhaps.    We  might  try." 

He  spoke  without  enthusiasm. 

"No,  don't  push  it  away  like  that,"  she  said, 
and  crossed  the  room  to  him.  "I  do  want  to 
help  you.  I  don't  want  you  to  work  so  hard  and 
get  that  dried-up  look  that  almost  all  successful 
barristers  have.  You  never  saw  a  judge  who 
wasn't  all  wrinkled  and  parchmenty.  I  don't 
want  you  to  be  like  that." 

She  had  taken  hold  of  the  lapels  of  his  coat 
and  was  looking  into  his  eyes.  Hope  flared  up 
in  his  imagination.  Her  closeness  to  him  stirred 
his  blood. 

"You  care  for  me  enough  to  think  about  that," 
he  whispered,  and  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"Of  course  I  care,"  she  said,  and  did  not  move 
to  release  herself.     But  her  passivity  and  her 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     147 

even  breathing  proved  to  him  that  once  more 
hope  had  deceived.    He  drew  away. 

"All  right,"  he  said  dully,  "I'U  think  it  over." 
Muriel  did  not  press  him  further  then,  but 
she  returned  to  her  plan  very  soon  and  got  him 
to  agree  to  let  her  try  what  she  could  do.  As 
she  expected,  she  found  herself  equal  to  the  task 
of  setting  out  clearly  and  concisely  for  Edward 
the  nature  of  the  cases  he  had  to  handle.  She 
liked  the  work,  and  she  liked  the  knowledge  that 
she  was  making  herself  useful.  In  time  Edward 
grew  into  a  reliance  upon  her  help. 

§  iv 

Yet  in  spite  of  the  success  of  Muriel's  com- 
panionship theory,  in  spite  of  the  closer  relations 
which  were  set  up  by  their  working  together, 
there  were  times  when  Tanstead's  ever-present 
feeling  of  resentment,  of  irritability  caused  by  the 
disappointment  of  his  expectations,  broke  the 
bonds  of  a  naturally  easy  temper  which  as  a  rule 
enclosed  it  and  transformed  him  into  a  person 
"gey  ill  to  live  with." 

Attacks  of  brooding  over  his  grievance  came 
on  suddenly  and  would  last  possibly  for  days. 
He  scarcely  spoke  so  long  as  he  was  under  their 
malign  influence.  In  his  eye  smouldered  the  dull 
ash  of  repressed  indignation.  The  corners  of 
his  lips  were  fixed.  His  hands  trembled  slightly; 
his  voice,  when  it  was  heard,  had  a  strained,  un- 
natural tone.  At  first  Muriel  was  puzzled  by 
these  symptoms,  they  almost  alarmed  her,  she  had 


148     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

no  idea  what  cause  lay  behind  them.  She  asked 
him  to  see  a  doctor;  he  shook  his  head  angrily. 

"Can  I  do  anything?"  she  asked,  honestly  con- 
cerned and  anxious  to  help. 

"Of  course  you  could,  if  you  chose,"  he  mut- 
tered, scarcely  audible. 

"What,  Edward?" 

"What?  What  do  you  suppose  a  man  marries 
for?"  he  asked,  still  mumbling  so  that  she  could 
only  just  hear  him. 

Then  she  understood  that  he  was  resentful 
against  the  conditions  of  their  life.  She  shrugged 
her  shoulders,  and  waited  for  the  fit  of  irritation 
to  pass,  telephoning  Tony  to  come  and  take  her 
out  to  dinner,  or  Anne  to  come  and  dine  with 
her,  so  that  she  might  not  be  left  with  Edward 
alone. 

On  the  second  Christmas  Day  after  their  mar- 
riage he  had  a  severe  attack.  Muriel,  who  had 
a  kindly  feeling  towards  her  cook  and  house 
parlour-maid  ("having  been  once,"  as  she  put  it, 
"a  servant  herself"),  and  who  knew  how  hard  it 
must  be  to  work  ^^i  usual  while  others  are  junk- 
eting and  knitting  up  family  ties,  had  let  them 
both  go  out.  In  the  evening  she  and  her  husband 
were  going  to  a  studio  party  given  by  a  painter 
whose  acquaintance  she  had  made  when  he  was 
drawing  for  Woman's  Sphere.  They  lunched 
out,  came  in  to  tea,  and  then  settled  themselves 
cosily  with  books. 

What  it  was  disturbed  Edward's  mind  Muriel 
never  knew.  It  may  have  been  a  chance  phrase 
in  the  book  he  was  reading;  he  may  have  been 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     149 

hurt  by  her  unresponsiveness  when  he  sank  on 
the  Chesterfield  beside  her,  slipped  an  arm  round 
her  shoulders  and  stroked  her  hair.  He  often 
said  that  such  marks  of  affection  would  draw 
from  a  cat  more  signs  of  pleasure  than  they  drew 
from  her. 

Whatever  the  cause,  he  was  under  the  influence, 
when  the  hour  came  for  their  cold  supper,  of  a 
first-class  grouch. 

"Christmas  always  makes  me  think  of  when 
I  was  a  child,"  Muriel  said,  shutting  up  her 
book  with  a  snap.  She  had  not  been  reading  for 
some  little  while,  she  had  been  looking  into  the 
fire.  "I  believe  all  our  enijoyment  of  it  comes 
from  recollecting  how  we  loved  it  then." 

"Don't  enjoy  it  much  now,"  he  growled. 

She  looked  across  at  him  surprised,  for  he  had 
been  exceedingly  cheerful  all  day. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  she  asked,  and  her  con- 
tentment with  the  warmth  and  the  quiet  and  the 
prospect  of  a  merry  evening  left  her  at  the  pros- 
pect of  a  "row." 

"Queer  sort  of  Christmas,"  he  replied.  "Dark 
house,  cold  meat.    Might  be  any  day." 

"But  you  didn't  mind  my  letting  the  servants 
go  out,  did  you?  I'm  sorry.  If  you'd  said  when 
I  asked  you  about  it,  we'd  have  had  a  regulation 
dinner." 

Her  sarcasm  stung  him 

"It  isn't  the  dinner  I  care  about,"  he  said 
angrily.  "Better  a  dinner  of  herbs  where  love 
is  than  a  stalled  ox  and  hatred  therewith." 

"I  dare  say  I  could  find  some  herbs  if  I  hunted 


150     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

the  kitchen  and  pantry,"  Muriel  answered,  with 
a  show  of  liveliness.  She  felt  that  she  must  try- 
to  ward  off  the  impending  period  of  gloom. 

"  'Where  love  is,'  "  he  repeated  with  resentful 
emphasis. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Edward,  don't  let's  begin  all 
that  over  again;  we  never  get  anywhere." 

"No,  that's  the  misery  of  it,"  he  said. 

Then  getting  up  brusquely:  "I'm  going  out 
for  a  walk." 

"Oh,  don't  be  so  silly.  Look  here,  let  me  cook 
you  something." 

"Can't  you  understand?  It  isn't  the — the 
actual  facts  I'm  kicking  at.  It's  what  lies  behind 
them."  He  was  in  the  hall  now,  groping  in  the 
hat  and  coat  cupboard. 

"I  wouldn't  care  what  we  had,  shouldn't  mind 
if  we  had  nothing  at  all,  so  long  as  I  had  a  wife 
who  cared  for  me.  Nothing  would  matter  if  you 
.  .  .  cared  for  the  things  I  care  for,  if  we  really 
had  a  home!" 

"Look  here,  now,  Edward,  be  sensible.  What's 
the  good  of  prowling  about  in  the  dark  and  mag- 
nifying your  grievance  until  it  blocks  out  every- 
thing else?  Come  and  have  supper.  It's  not  so 
bad.  And  then  we'll  go  to  Morrile's  party.  It's 
sure  to  be  great  fun. 

"There,  that's  right,"  she  told  him,  as  he 
slowly  took  off  his  overcoat  again.  "You  know 
I'm  fond  of  you.  I  can't  help  being  what  I  am. 
I  warned  you  about  it  beforehand.  You  mustn't 
make  these  scenes.  They  really  make  me  feel 
rotten.    Cheer  up,  the  worst  is  yet  to  come," 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     151 

She  took  his  arm,  and  as  they  went  into  the 
dining-room  turned  on  all  the  hghts. 

"We'll  have  a  Christmas  illumination  at  any 
rate,"  she  said. 

He  smiled,  very  faintly,  but  still  it  was  a  smile, 
and  that  broke  up  his  ill  humour.  Strange  that 
a  certain  contortion  of  the  features  should  make 
it  impossible  to  cherish  angry  feelings!  In  a 
few  minutes  they  were  talking  with  their  usual 
friendliness. 


CHAPTER  XII 

§i 

"Is  Edward  quite  well?"  Anne  asked  Muriel 
one  day  in  early  spring,  a  spring  of  blue  skies 
and  far-off  white  clouds  like  fragile  anemones 
and  hot  noon  sunshine  and  steely  blue  late  after- 
noons. 

"Yes.    Why?" 

"He  looks  nervy,  I  think." 

"He's  a  bit  nervy.     Hard  work,  I  suppose." 

Anne  looked  at  her  friend  steadily.  Did  she 
understand  more  than  her  answer  suggested? 
Was  she  sincere? 

"Don't  you  ever "  Anne  began,  and  then 

stopped. 

"Don't  I  what?" 

"Haven't  you  ever  thought  that  your  husband 
might " 

"Well?     Out  with  it?    Run  away?" 

"No — no,  not  that.  No  need  to  do  that.  Take 
up  with  some  other  woman,  I  meant." 

"The  possibility  has  occurred  to  me,"  Muriel 
admitted  demurely.    "What  then?" 

"Wouldn't  you  mind?" 

"All  depends  on  how  it  was  done,  my  dear." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  Anne  admitted  in  a  drag- 
ging voice. 

Ever  since  their  marriage  Anne  had  been 

15? 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     153 

watching  her  friends  closely.  Her  conception  of 
justice  required  that  Muriel's  experiment  should 
turn  out  a  failure.  Her  feeling  of  resentment 
still  smouldered,  without,  however,  diminishing 
friendship.  Along  with  friendship,  along  with 
genuine  affection,  there  goes  often  either  a 
slightly  contemptuous  estimate  of  ability,  or  an 
envy  which  looks  forward  to  undeserved  good 
fortune  being  some  day  stripped  off.  That  was 
Anne's  expectation.  She  liked  and  admired 
Muriel,  but  it  seemed  to  her  that  in  common  fair- 
ness retribution  in  some  shape  ought  to  follow 
so  bold  an  attempt  to  enjoy  the  advantages  of 
marriage,  while  disregarding  its  obligations. 
Anne  would  probably  not  have  let  this  thought 
dwell  with  her  if  she  had  been  married  and  a 
mother  herself. 

"I  suppose  it  would,"  she  repeated  reflectively. 

"Of  course  I  shouldn't  like  him  to  bring  any- 
one else  here.    The  flat  isn't  big  enough." 

"It's  all  very  well  to  be  cynical  about  it  now," 
Anne  burst  out,  "but  I  bet  you'd  take  it  very 
differently  if  you  really  found  out  anjrthing." 

"Do  you  mean "  began  Muriel  in  a  sud- 
denly altered  voice. 

"No,  no,"  Anne  assured  her,  "nothing  what- 
ever. If  I  had,  I  should  tell  you  straight  out. 
It  was  only  my  idea." 

"I  see.  Well,  don't  let  it  worry  you,  old 
thing.  It  isn't  likely  to  be  realised.  Edward's 
too  busy.  Besides,  why  should  he?  We  hit  it 
off  splendidly." 

She  was  perfectly  sincere  in  that  belief. 


154     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"Had  any  interesting  cases  lately?"  inquired 
Anne.  It  seemed  a  little  absurd  to  her  that 
Muriel,  who  had  only  read  law  for  a  little  over 
a  year,  should  imagine  herself  of  use  to  her  hus- 
band; there  was  a  shade  of  condescension  in  her 
tone,  too  slight,  however,  for  Muriel,  who  was 
never  on  the  look-out  for  such  fine  shades,  to 
notice. 

"Nothing  very  great.  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  meant 
to  go  up  to-day  and  look  at  that  new  book  on  the 
law  of  master  and  servant.  I  ought  to  have  had 
the  references  for  this  evening.  What  an  idiot 
I  ami" 

"I've  got  that,"  said  Anne.  "I'll  fetch  it  for 
you." 

"No,  I  can't  let  you  bother." 

"No  bother  at  all.  I  can  be  there  and  back 
in  twenty  minutes." 

"I'd  come  with  you  to  look  at  it,  only  I  must 
dress  early  this  evening.  We've  got  to  go  out 
to  a  dinner  and  theatre.  It's  most  awfully  kind 
of  you,  Anitchka." 

Anne  was  warm  when  she  returned,  both  out- 
wardly from  exercise  and  inwardly  from  pleasure 
in  pleasing  her  friend.  She  felt  this  made  up  for 
the  anticipation  she  cherished  of  a  catastrophic 
turn  in  Muriel's  married  life. 


That  theatre  party  marked  a  decisive  turn  in 
Tanstead's  legal  career.  The  invitation  came 
from  a  woman  possessing  that  vaguely  under- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     155 

stood  but  very  real  power  known  as  social  influ- 
ence. In  decaying  systems  such  influence  has 
always,  at  a  certain  stage,  become  a  feature  of 
social  life.  Rome  knew  it,  France  knew  it.  In 
England  open  boast  has  been  made  of  it,  though 
not  by  the  women  who  most  of  all  exercised  it. 
At  the  British  War  Office,  according  to  the  pub- 
lished statement  of  one  who  was  Secretary  of 
State  for  War,  it  was  necessary  to  make  a  rule 
that  no  officer  whose  claims  were  put  forward 
by  a  woman  should  even  be  put  into  the  running 
for  the  coveted  employment. 

Legal  appointments  have  seldom  been  in- 
trigued for  in  this  fashion.  Barristers  are  rarely 
attractive  to  women;  they  have  not  the  leisure 
which  soldiers  can  devote  to  the  science  of  fasci- 
nation. Nor  have  the  dignitaries  who  dispose  of 
legal  appointments  been  until  recently  suscepti- 
ble to  the  arts  of  feminine  persuasion.  There 
is  this  also  to  remember:  preferment  in  the  law 
is  so  useful  as  a  counter  in  the  pohtical  game  that 
social  considerations  are  almost  entirely  ruled 
out  where  they  are  concerned. 

Still,  there  are  occasions  in  which  the  influence 
of  women  may  be  valuable  even  in  this  field. 
There  are  one  or  two  posts  in  the  legal  hierarchy 
which  entitle  their  holders  after  a  certain  period 
of  service  to  claim  as  their  right  elevation  to  the 
judge's  bench.  One  of  these  is  the  post  of  Attor- 
ney-General's "devil"  ("devil"  being  the  legal 
term  for  a  man  who  does  another  man's  work), 
and  towards  this  Tanstead's  ambition  directed  his 
efforts.    He  had  reached  a  position  at  the  junior 


156    THE  FRUIT  OF,  THE  TREE 

Bar  which  entitled  him  to  aim  at  such  promotion. 

It  was  known,  however,  that  the  good  word 
of  a  certain  lady  might  be  as  valuable  to  an  as- 
pirant in  this  direction  as  any  purely  professional 
claim.  Muriel  happened  to  meet  and  amuse  this 
lady.  Tanstead,  after  a  struggle  with  his  pride, 
which  disinclined  him  to  seek  favours,  confided 
to  his  wife  that  there  was  a  possibility  of  her 
new  acquaintance  being  useful.  Muriel  entered 
into  his  hope  with  enthusiasm,  made  it  her  busi- 
ness to  cultivate  the  intimacy;  this  invitation 
was  the  fruit  of  her  activity  in  her  husband's 
interest. 

Tanstead  had  no  particular  personality,  but 
he  could  make  himself  agreeable,  and,  when  he 
had  any  incentive,  talk  well.  He  did  both  on 
this  occasion  and  made  a  sufficiently  favourable 
impression.  But  he  was  made  to  understand  that, 
if  influence  were  exerted  in  his  behalf,  it  would 
be  for  Muriel's  sake  rather  than  his  own. 

"Dehghtful  person  your  wife,  Mr.  Tanstead," 
the  great  lady  said  to  him,  as  they  drove  to  the 
theatre.  "Very  clever,  I  call  her.  I  do  so  like 
people  to  be  amusing.  Don't  know  when  I've 
taken  to  anybody  so  quickly." 

Before  they  parted  she  had  invited  Muriel 
to  "take  her  husband  down  for  a  week-end"  to 
what  she  called  her  "cottage"  in  Berkshire,  really 
a  house  where  she  could  entertain  a  dozen  guests. 

"I'll  ask  Charlie  Dinamore,"  she  said  to 
Muriel,  with  a  meaning  look.  "He  and  your 
husband  can  have  long  talks,  while  I  make  you 
help  me  with  my  rock-garden.   We'll  have  hardly 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     157 

anyone  else.     Good-night,  and  mind  you  come 
and  see  me  very  soon." 

For  an  hour  after  they  got  home  the  Tansteads 
discussed  the  case  which  had  required  reference 
to  the  volume  brought  by  Anne.  Edward  was  in 
excellent  spirits.  He  had  good  hope  now  that  the 
post  he  desired  might  be  brought  within  his  reach. 
Instead  of  falling  asleep  immediately,  as  his 
habit  was,  he  lay  awake  that  night  for  a  few  min- 
utes thinking  over  his  chances,  and  he  admitted  to 
himself  without  reserve  that  Muriel  had  certainly 
turned  out  a  very  useful  wife.  He  had  from  the 
earliest  days  of  his  admiration  for  her  reckoned 
upon  the  value  of  her  social  assistance  to  him; 
this  had  even  surpassed  his  expectations.  Few 
men  could  get  from  their  wives  the  same  amount 
of  help  as  he  did.  Yet  he  went  to  sleep  with  the 
old,  unextinguished  ember  of  resentment  against 
his  heart  and  the  familiar  refrain:  "If  only " 

§  iii 

A  few  days  later  he  set  to  work  in  chambers 
to  reply  to  a  basketful  of  letters  which  he  had 
foolishly  allowed  to  accumulate.  The  task  was 
too  formidable  to  be  tackled  by  hand.  He  asked 
his  clerk  to  send  out  for  a  stenographer  so  that 
he  might  dictate  his  replies. 

A  girl  came,  a  girl  with  smooth  brown  hair 
and  velvety  eyes,  with  a  broad-shouldered,  deep- 
bosomed  figure  that  must,  Tanstead  thought  at 
once,  make  her  seem  out  of  the  picture  in  a  tjrpe- 
writing  office,  out  of  place  in  city  streets.    She 


158    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

belonged  to  the  country,  to  the  same  order  of 
creation  as  hills  and  trees  and  smoothly  moving 
streams. 

"Hope  they  haven't  sent  me  a  girl  fresh  from 
the  woods,"  was  his  reflection.  He  was  reheved 
to  discover  that  her  shorthand  was  quite  rapid 
enough  for  his  requirement,  and  he  found  her 
presence  soothing.  His  opinion  of  her  was  high 
as  soon  as  he  noticed  that  she  wore  what  he  called 
"sensible  stockings."  She  sat  comfortably  and, 
when  she  had  to  ask  a  question,  asked  it  in  a  f  uU, 
coloured  voice.  Her  influence  was,  therefore, 
restful,  and  it  affected  Tanstead  so  agreeably, 
along  with  the  relief  of  getting  through  his  ar- 
rears so  easily,  that,  when  he  had  finished  dictat- 
ing, he  said  to  her — ^without  having  thought  about 
it  beforehand,  almost  indeed  to  his  own  surprise : 

"I  wonder  if  you  could  come  in  once  or  twice 
a  week  to  help  me  with  my  letters." 

She  looked  at  him  eagerly  for  an  instant,  then, 
as  quickly,  her  eyes  dropped  and  her  expression 
lost  its  keenness. 

"You  mean  in  connection  with  the  ofiice,  I 
suppose." 

"I  did.  Will  you  tell  me  what  passed  through 
your  mind  just  now?" 

"No,  thank  you.  I'd  rather  not.  I  dare  say 
the  office  wouldn't  think  it  quite  honourable." 

"What,  to  propose  to  do  my  work  privately?" 

"How  could  you  tell?"  she  asked,  looking  at 
him  puzzled  and  a  little  alarmed. 

"Not  very  difficult  to  guess,"  he  told  her,  smil- 
ing.   "You  do  take  private  work,  then?" 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     159 

"Yes,  when  I  can  get  it.  That  isn't  very  often. 
And  I've  never  asked  anybody  for  work  who  had 
got  me  from  the  office.  It  wouldn't  be  straight, 
I  see  that." 

"You  didn't  ask  me.  I  saw  the  idea  come  intq. 
your  head,  and  how  you  drove  it  out  again." 

She  turned  her  big  eyes  full  on  him. 

"You  must  be  a  wonderful  man,  if  you  really 
did  that.  And  I  don't  see  how  else  you  could 
tell  what  I  was  thinking  about." 

"No  other  way  possible,"  he  said,  smiling 
again.  "But  it's  part  of  my  business,  you  see, 
to  study  people's  faces." 

"I  think  I  should  be  rather  afraid  of  you  if 
I  came  here  often,"  she  said,  with  an  enchanting 
seriousness. 

"Not  a  bit.  You'd  see  through  me  very 
quickly.  Now  tell  me,  you'd  like  to  take  on  my 
correspondence  as  a  private  job  of  your  own?" 

"I  don't  think  I  ought  to." 

"Don't   think   about   it.     When   could   you 


come 


"I  had  no  business  to  think  of  it,  but  it  just 
came  right  into  my  head.  That's  because  I'm 
so  anxious  to  save  money — I  want  to  save  enough 
to  go  right  away  into  the  country  for  my  holiday, 
not  just  a  fortnight,  but  a  whole  month.  Some 
little  regular  job  is  what  I've  been  looking  for. 
But  really  I  don't " 

"Now  I  thought  we  had  done  with  scruples," 
Tanstead  interrupted.  "The  only  thing  we  have 
to  do  is  to  arrange  hours  and  terms." 

These  were  soon  settled,  and  that  evening  Tan- 


160    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

stead  told  Muriel  he  had  hired  a  secretary,  and 
began  to  relate  the  circumstances,  but  she  did  not 
seem  interested,  so  he  said  no  more. 


§    IV 

If  Tanstead  had  been  given  to  studying  his 
own  motives  and  reactions  and  processes  of 
thought,  he  would  have  known  that  there  were 
rocks  ahead  when  he  began  to  feel  sorry  for 
Margaret  Seymour.  That  had  been  the  begin- 
ning of  his  infatuation  for  Muriel. 

He  did  not  recollect  this,  he  did  not  give  a 
thought  to  the  possibility  of  a  warmer  feeling 
following  upon  pity  for  the  country  bird  caged 
behind  London  bars,  and  longing  for  the  freedom 
and  variety  of  life  in  the  open.  For  he  had  not, 
since  his  marriage,  even  considered  entering  into 
relations,  sentimental  or  monetary,  with  any 
other  woman.  Had  this  been  suggested  to  him, 
he  would  have  shrunk  from  it.  He  had  the  usual 
decent  Englishman's  regard  for  what  he  had  been 
taught  to  regard  as  right  and  proper  in  the  sexual 
line;  he  looked  upon  unfaithfulness  as  "low"  be- 
haviour: the  idea  of  consoKng  himself  for  his 
disappointment  never  presented  itself  to  his  mind. 

He  had  no  sense  of  adventure,  no  apprehen- 
sion of  risk,  therefore,  when  he  talked  with  Mar- 
garet, heard  scraps  of  her  history,  realised  her 
dissatisfaction  with  life,  groped  after  plans  that 
might  help  her  to  escape  into  less  oppressive  sur- 
roundings. At  first,  they  exchanged  only  a  few 
sentences  after  the  letters  were  done,  but,  being 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     161 

both  friendly  people,  they  soon  grew  to  an  in- 
terest in  one  another,  and  both  looked  forward 
to  the  afternoons  on  which,  after  her  office  hours, 
Margaret  went  into  the  Temple  to  her  secretary's 
job,  of  which,  although  she  had  no  liking  for  her 
occupation,  she  was  decidedly  proud.  She  had 
been  moved  by  Tanstead's  kindness  at  their  first 
meeting;  at  the  office  she  had  been  told  he  was  "a 
very  clever  man,"  which  lent  him  mystery  in  her 
eyes ;  soon  she  was  ready  to  fall  in  love  with  him 
upon  the  least  encouragement. 

Margaret  would  have  fallen  in  love  with  any 
man  who  was  kind  to  her,  and  not  repulsive  in 
appearance.  She  belonged  to  the  maternal  order 
of  womankind,  which  regards  men  merely  as 
fathers  and  loves  only  as  a  step  towards  the 
fulfilling  of  woman's  natural  destiny,  mother- 
hood. She  longed  for  children,  they  filled  her 
dreams;  her  waking  thoughts  dwelt  ecstatically 
upon  them.  Yet  she  had  never  had  a  sweetheart, 
never  come  near  receiving  an  offer  of  marriage. 
She  could  not  understand  why,  if  other  girls, 
not  specially  attractive,  found  lovers  with  appa- 
rent ease,  she  should  be  left  on  one  side.  She 
did  not  know  that  most  men  of  the  present  age 
avoid  her  type,  are  a  little  bit  afraid  of  it.  In- 
stinct tells  them  that  such  women  are  soon  likely 
to  be  surrounded  by  children;  they  seem  to  dis- 
cern that  they  would  not  be  loved  for  their  own 
qualities,  but  as  instruments  of  a  purpose  in  life 
with  which  they  are  not  much  in  sympathy. 

In  countries  which  need  populating — Canada, 
for  example — women  like  Margaret  abound,  and 


y 


mi    THE.  TMXUIT  CXP  TH£  TKEK 


vttriiiiEraEi 
.  ji  :aj±  Itaififi 


imt 


mnr  of  the 


164     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"Right;  you  shall  walk  as  much  as  you  like." 

So  they  walked,  and  Margaret's  eyes  grew 
more  velvety  with  enjoyment,  and  her  soft  lips 
smiled  at  the  stretches  of  green,  and  the  trees  and 
the  blue  distance. 

"It's  delicious,'*  she  murmured.  "What  a  kind 
idea  of  yours!" 

"Kind  to  myself,'*  Tanstead  told  her.  "Mayn't 
I  have  a  taste  for  the  country  too?" 

"Ah,  but  you  don't  know  what  it  means  to  me. 
Fancy  having  this  always  to  walk  in." 

"Why  shouldn't  you  live  close  to  the  Park?" 

"Can't  afford  it.  I  only  just  manage  where 
I  am.  I  suppose  I'm  not  very  good  at  manag- 
ing." 

"What  a  shame  I'*  said  Tanstead,  and  pity 
clutched  him  with  its  insidious  hooks. 

In  the  dressing-room  where  Margaret  washed 
her  hands  and  tidied  her  hair  before  dinner  there 
was  a  scent-sprayer,  and  because  she  had  been 
warm  and  thought  it  would  be  pleasantly  re- 
freshing she  sprayed  her  hair  and  forehead  and 
her  neck  and  the  front  of  her  blouse.  Tanstead 
was  conscious  of  some  difference  about  her  while 
they  dined ;  afterwards,  when  they  sat  in  the  twi- 
light garden,  looking  over  the  Hill  landscape 
with  the  river  a  white  thread  holding  it  together 
in  the  dusk,  the  faint  perfume  troubled  his  senses. 

He  leaned  to  her,  and  threw  away  his  cigar- 
ette. 

"If  only  we  had  met  sooner  I"  he  murmured. 

"Why?"  she  asked,  very  softly. 

"Because — oh,  because  we  ought  to  have  met 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     165 

sooner — because  I  should  have  married  you,  Mar- 
garet." 

"Oh  no." 

"Oh  yes." 

Then,  with  sudden  decision,  she  broke  the  spell 
of  sentiment,  stood  up  and  said : 

"Too  late  now  to  think  about  that,  and  too 
late  to  stay  here  any  longer." 

She  spoke  Hghtly  and  they  said  little  to  one 
another,  as  they  walked  to  the  station  and  went 
back  by  train.  But  each  felt  that  a  new  relation 
had  been  set  up  between  them,  and  wondered 
how  the  future  might  change  it  further  yet. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


The  next  Sunday,  not  having  seen  Tanstead 
again  in  the  interval  between  their  walk  and  the 
week-end,  Margaret  went  to  church. 

This  was  a  habit  she  had  never  quite  dropped. 
She  was  not  "religious"  in  the  commonly  ac- 
cepted sense  of  that  expression.  She  did  not  lie 
awake  at  night  bewailing  her  sins.  But  the  asso- 
ciations of  "chm*ch"  in  her  thoughts  were  all  with 
her  happy  life  as  a  farmer's  daughter ;  with  sunny 
Sunday  mornings  when  she  walked  the  paths 
through  long  grass  embroidered  with  wild  flow- 
ers, or  through  wavy  fields  of  grain,  green  in 
sunmier,  gold  in  autumn;  with  evenings  of  infi- 
nite peace  when  the  "first  long  evening  yellow" 
filled  the  nave  and  aisles  with  an  unearthly  radi- 
ance, and  the  hymns,  if  they  were  good  ones  like 
For  all  the  Saints  ot  At  Even  ere  the  Sun  was  set, 
gave  you  a  catch  in  your  throat. 

Margaret  had  accepted  without  question  what 
Anglican  Church  teaching  conveyed  to  her — a 
queer  jumble  of  ideas  contributed  by  a  queer 
company  of  teachers,  beginning  with  devotees  of 
the  detestable  Jah-veh,  tribal  god  of  the  bar- 
barous and  disgusting  clans  whose  doings  are 
recorded  in  the  Old  Testament;  including  poets 
like  David  and  the  author  of  the  Book  of  Job, 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     167 

philosophers  hke  the  pessimist  of  Ecclesiastes, 
and  Saint  Paul,  with  his  smattering  of  Byzan- 
tine metaphysics;  and  coming  down  through 
Saint  Athanasius,  Saint  Francis  of  Assisi,  Cal- 
vin, John  Knox,  Dr.  Colenso,  Pusey  and  Canon 
Scott  Holland  to  Bishop  Henson  and  Bishop 
Gore.     She  accepted  that  jumble  of  incompre-  4^ 

hensibles  and  incompatibles,  just  as  she  accepted 
everything  else,  without  question  or  criticism, 
without  any  prayer 

Either  to  know  a  little  more, 
Or  feel  a  little  less, 

since  she  was  a  healthy  young  woman,  designed 
by  Nature  for  one  purpose,  motherhood,  and 
shaped  in  all  attributes  of  mind  and  body  to  that  J 

end. 

So,  feeling  uneasy,  Margaret  went  to  church. 
Not  that  she  had  any  weight  of  wrong-doing 
on  her  conscience.  She  guessed  that  Tanstead 
was  married,  but,  even  so,  no  harm  had  been 
done  by  his  telling  her  that  he  wished  he  were 
free.  Many  marriages  did  turn  out  badly ;  every- 
one knew  that.  She  felt  sorry  for  him  and  sorry 
for  herself.  She  liked  him,  and  she  would  have 
gladly  agreed  to  marry  him,  and  she  wanted 
badly  to  be  married,  for  she  knew  that  she  could 
never  be  happy  until  she  had  children.  But  as 
it  couldn't  be,  it  couldn't  be.  That  was  all  there 
was  to  it.  He  was  not  likely  to  say  anything 
more  in  the  same  strain.  She  had  better  not  let 
him  take  her  out  again,  though  she  would  go  on 


168     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

being  his  secretary.  That  she  couldn't  give  up, 
for  the  double  reason  that  it  provided  her  with 
an  interest  in  life  more  vivid  than  she  had  known 
since  she  came  to  London  after  the  break-up  of 
her  home,  and  that  she  needed  the  money  which 
she  earned  with  him  to  increase  her  holiday  fund. 

§ii 

Tanstead's  uneasiness  was  more  disturbing 
than  Margaret's.  He  was  both  surprised  and 
alarmed  by  the  impulse  which  made  him  speak 
to  her  as  he  did.  He  could  not,  without  shame 
and  shrinking,  consider  himself  in  the  guise  of  a 
seducer;  that  was  the  word  he  employed.  Yet 
he  could  not  keep  his  thoughts  off  this  girl  in 
whom  he  saw,  too  late,  the  nature  with  which 
he  had  wrongly  credited  Muriel.  She  could  not, 
of  course,  offer  the  same  quality  of  companion- 
ship; she  had  no  intellectual  curiosity,  no  inter- 
est in  ideas.  But  what  did  that  matter?  Home 
and  family  would  furnish  topics  enough  for  con- 
versation between  such  a  woman  and  her  husband. 
She  could  listen  with  intelligence  enough  to  make 
talking  agreeable  to  him,  and,  after  all,  affection 
brought  common  interests  with  it.  He  felt  more 
genuinely  at  ease  with  Margaret  than  he  ever  had 
felt  with  Muriel;  they  seemed  to  understand  one 
another  by  instinct;  the  very  thought  of  her 
soothed  him. 

It  did  not  occur  to  Tanstead  to  go  to  church; 
he  walked  from  corner  to  corner  of  his  study, 
perplexed  and  dissatisfied,  yet  not  unhappy,  for 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     169 

acquaintance  with  Margaret  had  brought  into  his 
hfe  possibihties  which  made  him  tingle  with  the 
renewal  of  his  old  hope.  Yet  these  were  possi- 
bilities which,  as  soon  as  he  glanced  at  them, 
he  felt  bound  to  drive  from  his  imagination.  How 
could  he  sink  so  low  himself?  How  could  he 
drag  down  so  sweet  and  trustful  a  creature  as 
Margaret?  How  dare  he  risk  discovery  and  the 
just  anger  of  Muriel — wait,  though,  would  it  be 
just?  Wouldn't  it  serve  Muriel  right?  Had 
she  not  hinted  to  him  that  he  could,  if  he  chose, 
go  his  own  way?  No,  if  she  were  angry,  she 
would  have  no  right  to  be;  and,  perhaps,  what- 
ever happened,  she  might  not  really  mind. 

Back  and  forth,  from  corner  to  corner.  Tan- 
stead  walked  on  this  Sunday,  by  the  hour  at  a 
time.  He  connected  Margaret's  longing  for  the 
country  with  the  longing  for  children  which  he 
had  discerned  in  her,  especially  when  she  spoke 
of  the  woman  he  was  writing  to,  who  had  babies 
and  therefore  need  not  grieve.  He  could  fancy 
her  in  a  big  sunny  cottage,  deep  in  the  heart  of 
the  real — that  is,  of  rural — England,  with  girls 
and  boys  growing  up  about  her,  working  hard 
for  them  and  enjoying  every  moment  of  her  life. 
That  vision  assumed  easy  circumstances.  Well, 
he  could  provide  them.  He  was  making  more 
money  every  year.  What  had  he  to  spend  it  on? 
How  could  he  spend  it  to  better  purpose  than 
making  Margaret  content,  letting  her  fulfil  her 
destiny  and  bring  up  a  healthy,  happy  brood  of 
children  to  sweeten  the  breath  of  the  world? 

Against  this  view  were  set  all  Tanstead's  con- 


170    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

captions  of  what  was  decent  and  right.  He  had 
no  particular  religious  belief  of  any  kind,  and  he 
would  have  admitted  that  morality  was  a  floating, 
not  a  fixed,  mark  in  the  sea  of  human  nature, 
seeing  that  many  things  were  considered  proper 
among  this  people  which  were  denounced  as  dis- 
graceful by  that,  much  that  was  commendable  in 
England  being  held  in  horror  somewhere  else, 
the  virtue  of  Kensington  regarded  as  shameful 
in  Baktiariland,  and 

The  crimes  of  Clapham  chaste  in  Martaban. 

What  swayed  him  were  the  traditions  in  which 
he  had  been  brought  up,  the  sense  implanted  in 
him  at  home  and  at  school  and  at  the  univer- 
sity of  a  "white  man's"  obligations  and  inhibi- 
tions, the  thought  that  by  yielding  to  the 
persuasion  of  his  desires  he  would  lose  caste. 

No  argimaent  could  he  find  to  rebut  the  con- 
viction forced  upon  him  by  these.  He  had  the 
true  EngUsh  horror  of  what  is  socially  "taboo"; 
he  could  not  face  without  acute  discomfort  the 
doing  of  anything  that  would  be  pronounced  bad 
form,  or  "not  cricket,"  you  know.  Had  it  been 
any  of  the  usual  methods  of  sexual  irregularity 
that  was  in  question,  such  considerations  would 
not  have  troubled  him.  Had  he  merely  wished 
to  amuse  himself  with  Margaret  and  cast  her  off 
with  a  gift  of  money  when  he  tired  of  her,  or  had 
he  proposed  to  set  her  up  as  an  ordinary  mistress, 
he  would  have  no  reason  to  fear  social  condemna- 
tion.   That  would  certainly  be  provoked,  how- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     171 

ever,  by  the  estabKshment  of  a  second  regular 
household ;  it  would  be  intensified  by  the  apparent 
respectability  of  the  connection,  and  raised  to  the 
highest  power  by  the  fact  that  children  resulted 
from  it. 

Yet  he  could  not  get  rid  of  that  mind's-eye 
picture  of  Margaret  in  her  cottage,  and  when  he 
looked  into  it  and  saw  the  calendar  on  the  wall 
marked  "Saturday,"  he  saw  himself  driving  up 
in  a  motor  and  jumping  out  and  having  the  chil- 
dren rush  to  greet  him  and  looking  past  them, 
when  the  first  embraces  were  over,  for  his  gentle, 
soft-lipped,  velvety-eyed,  deep-bosomed — he  had 
almost  completed  the  description  with  "wife." 

Well,  why  not?  Muriel  was  not  really  his 
wife.  Which  ought  to  weigh  the  more  heavily, 
a  legal  technicality  or  an  actual  union?  He 
had  got  as  far  as  asking  himself  that,  with  the 
faint  odour  of  the  perfume  that  Margaret  had 
used  still  stirring  his  senses,  when  the  day  came 
round  for  her  next  appearance  at  his  chambers 
as  typist. 

§  iii 

At  first  they  were  constrained  and  business- 
like. Tanstead  dictated  steadily,  one  letter  after 
another  without  pause  between.  But  when  he 
had  finished  and  she  had  snapped  her  notebook 
and  risen  to  go,  he  said,  in  a  more  natural  voice : 
"When  shall  we  have  another  walk?" 

"I  don't  think  we'd  better,"  was  Margaret's 
answer,  given  in  a  hesitating  tonCj  while  she  ex- 
amined closely  the  binding  of  the  notebook. 


172     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"Why?"  he  asked  anxiously.  He  had  not  ex- 
pected any  scruples  from  her.  Man-like,  he 
thought  he  had  only  to  beckon  and  she  would 
follow.  It  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  she  might 
have  been  through  a  struggle  also  and  might  have 
determined  to  put  an  end  to  the  affair  herself. 

"You  know  why,  of  course,"  she  rephed,  with 
some  petulance.  "Things  hke  you  said  the  other 
night  are  upsetting.  You  oughtn't  to  say  them, 
and  I  oughtn't  to  listen  to  them." 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  admitted  Tanstead 
weakly. 

"But  I  meant  what  I  said,  you  know,"  he  went 
on.  "I  want  a  home  badly,  and  I'm  sure  you'd 
make  me  the  home  I've  always  thought  about." 

"It's  too  late  to  think  about  it,  now,"  she  said, 
with  sombre  resolution. 

"Still  that  needn't  prevent  us  from  seeing  each 
other  sometimes — I  mean  outside  of  these  cham- 
bers— and  my  taking  you  for  a  little  breath  of 
the  country  now  and  then,  need  it?" 

"We'd  better  not,"  repeated  Margaret  dog- 
gedly. 

"What  rotten  luck,"  Tanstead  said,  after  a 
pause,  which  he  filled  up  by  pulling  out  a  drawer 
and  searching  for  letter  paper  stamped  with  his 
address  for  her  to  type  the  letters  on — "what  rot- 
ten luck  that  we've  only  come  across  each  other 
now.    You — ^you  hke  me,  don't  you?" 

He  found  the  paper,  and  stood  up  to  give  it 
to  her. 

How  it  happened  they  neither  of  them  could 
have  told,  but  the  next  moment  Margaret  was 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     178 

in  his  arms.  They  were  both  pieces  of  tinder 
ready  to  be  ignited  by  the  smallest  spark.  Their 
lips  met.  They  forgot  everything  but  each  other 
until  a  shght  noise  in  the  room  above  recalled 
them  to  a  world  which  was  inhabited  by  a  good 
many  hundred  million  other  people  besides  them- 
selves. 

Margaret  slipped  from  him,  shook  herself  very 
much  as  a  cat  does  when  it  has  jumped  from 
your  grasp,  turned  to  the  small  horseshoe-framed 
looking-glass  on  the  wall  to  put  her  hair  straight, 
and  let  her  emotion  escape  in  the  form  of  a  dry, 
soul-rending  sob.    This  tore  at  Tanstead's  heart. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  said;  "do  forgive  me. 
I — I  didn't  mean  to;  and  yet,"  he  added,  "I'm 
glad  too.    Now  you  know  what  I  feel." 

"Do  you  think,"  she  asked,  her  question  half 
choked  by  another  sob,  "that  that  will  make  me 
any  happier?" 

"Don't  be  unhappy,  little  girl.  There  must  be 
some  way  out.  It  can't  do  you  any  harm  to  know 
that  there's  a  man  who'd  do  anything  in  the  world 
for  you,  who'll  always  be  your  friend  if  you'll  let 
him,  who'd  think  it  the  greatest  joy  he  could  have 
to  look  after  you.  That  oughtn't  to  make  you 
unhappy,  ought  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  must  think.  It's  come  so 
suddenly.  Oh,  you  mustn't  think  I'm  angry 
with  you,"  she  went  on,  turning  to  him.  "I'm 
not  angry.  Y-you're  a  dear.  It  isn't  that.  But 
it's  all  such  a  puzzle  and  a  muddle.  I  feel  I 
don't  know  where  I  am." 

"It's  my  fault,"  he  said  penitently.    "Do  for- 


174    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

give  me,  and  tell  me  you  care  for  me  just  a  little." 
"Of  course  I  forgive  you,"  she  answered,  "and 
that  means  that  I  care  for  you  more  than  a  little." 
"Well,  then,  prove  it  by  coming  out  to  dinner. 
I  know  you'd  like  to  go  home  first,  so  I'll  call  for 
you  at  half -past  seven  in  a  taxi,  and  we'll  go 
somewhere  quiet." 

The  prospect  of  dinner  as  usual  in  her  cheap 
boarding-house,  with  the  customary  chatter  and 
bickering,  and  the  long,  stuffy  evening  after- 
wards, either  in  her  own  tiny  room  or  in  the  fusty 
common  meeting-place  called  the  lounge,  sent  a 
shudder  through  her.  She  nodded  her  "Yes"  to 
his  plan  and  was  gone. 

§  iv 

fTaking  the  world  as  it  had  been  interpreted 
to  her  by  her  pastors  and  masters,  Margaret  up 
to  this  time  divided  "good"  and  "bad"  into  two 
distinct  classes.  Black  she  knew  and  white  she 
knew.  That  there  could  be  any  colour  in  between 
had  never  occurred  to  her  thought. 

Her  own  condition  was,  therefore,  as  she  had 
told  Tanstead,  a  painful  puzzle  to  her.  Black 
she  was  not,  according  to  the  standards  by  which 
she  judged;  she  had  not  changed,  so  far  as  she 
could  discover;  she  was  still  the  same  girl  she 
had  been  before:  it  was  her  circumstances  that 
had  altered,  so  she  argued,  not  herself.  That  ar- 
gument she  owed  to  Tanstead.  He  had  used 
many  and,  since  he  was  a  skilful  advocate,  they 
had  all  been  persuasive,  but  that  was  the  only  one 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     175 

which  had  stuck  in  Margaret's  memory.  Even 
this,  however,  could  not  prove  that  she  was 
"white"  still.  Therefore  she  was  driven,  all  her 
preconceptions  being  overturned,  to  suppose  that 
a  certain  number  of  people  were  "grey."  Or, 
putting  it  another  way,  she  followed  this  line 
suggested  by  Tanstead:  that  some  people  delib- 
erately get  wet  when  it  rains  because  they  like  it, 
whereas  others  are  careful  to  keep  dry,  but  that 
this  division  does  not  take  in  everybody,  since 
there  are  some  who  do  not  like  rain,  but  have  no 
cloaks  or  umbrellas,  and  therefore  get  wet  in 
spite  of  their  preference  for  dryness. 

To  quiet  her  conscience  by  such  reasoning  was 
not  possible,  but  she  did  by  degrees  grow  into  an 
acceptance  of  her  position,  similar  to  her  accept- 
ance of  everything  else  in  life  and  due  chiefly 
to  the  perfection  with  which  all  parts  of  her 
bodily  machine  worked,  especially  the  diges- 
tive part.  The  people  who  make  themselves  mis- 
erable by  brooding  over  their  circumstances  and 
wishing  them  different  (and  also  the  people  who, 
like  Napoleon  and  Thomas  Carlyle,  make  the 
human  race  miserable  either  by  their  ambition 
or  their  destructive  criticism)  are  invariably  per- 
sons whose  bodily  machines  are  not  normal;  as 
a  rule  it  is  the  irritability  of  their  stomach-linings 
which  sets  them  apart.  Margaret's  mind,  being 
undisturbed  by  any  ailment  of  her  body,  came 
before  very  long  to  regard  Tanstead  and  her 
relation  with  him  and  the  cottage  in  which  she 
lived  as  elements  which  had  come  into  her  life 
she  knew  not  how,  and  which  she  could  not  alter 


176    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

even  if  she  would:  therefore  her  mind  did  not 
worry  about  them. 

This  cottage  had  been  a  lucky  find.  Not  quite 
twenty-five  miles  from  London,  it  had  no  other 
house  save  one  within  sight  of  it.  That  one  was 
at  the  other  end  of  its  garden  and  faced  another 
road;  thus  each  of  them  was  at  the  same  time 
secluded  in  appearance,  and  in  reality  united 
very  closely  with  the  other.  The  road  divided 
into  two  roads  a  little  way  above  the  cottages. 
Margaret's  cottage  was  approached  from  one  of 
these ;  the  second  cottage,  occupied  by  Tanstead, 
stood  a  little  way  back  from  the  other.  He  had 
happened  upon  an  advertisement  offering  for 
sale  the  whole  triangle  with  its  two  dwellings; 
he  went  at  once  to  see  it,  and  bought  it  forth- 
with. 

This  was  in  the  autumn.  Muriel  had  come  back 
from  the  Norman  coast  full  of  vigour;  then  she 
and  Tanstead  had  paid  a  few  visits.  He  had  had 
no  Jong  or  complete  change.  A  little  while  before 
the  purchase  of  the  cottage  a  famous  doctor  had 
said  to  Muriel,  at  a  dinner-party: 

"You  ought  to  protest  against  your  husband 
working  so  hard,  Mrs.  Tanstead.  He  doesn't 
look  well.  Take  him  away  for  week-ends.  He'd 
be  all  the  better  for  it." 

Muriel  passed  this  on  to  her  husband,  who 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  took  more  note  of 
it  than  he  appeared  to.  It  made  his  way  more 
clear.  Up  to  this  time  he  and  Margaret  had 
remained  on  the  same  terms.  They  saw  each 
other  frequently,  had  made  some  more  excur- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     177 

sions,  but  were  still  only  affectionate  friends. 
Now  it  seemed  to  Tanstead  as  if  Muriel  had 
pointed  the  way  to  the  next  development  in  their 
relations.  If  he  could  arrange  with  Muriel's  ap- 
proval and  for  good  cause  to  be  away  at  week- 
ends, everything  would  be  simple  enough.  So  he 
began  to  look  at  advertisements  of  country  cot- 
tages and  was  fortunate  enough  to  hit  on  the  very 
thing  he  had  vaguely  in  mind. 

Here  was  a  cottage  he  could  take  and  show 
Muriel,  to  which  he  could  invite  her  occasionally 
if  she  cared  to  go  down  for  week-ends.  That  he 
thought  doubtful.  He  had  sometimes  spoken 
before  of  such  a  cottage;  she  had  always  said: 
"You  go  by  all  means,  but  don't  expect  me  to." 
She  was  out  of  her  element  in  the  country;  she 
found  very  little  to  do,  and  she  did  not  like  the 
people  she  found  there. 

"The  sort  of  people  who  seem  never  to  have 
been  outside  their  own  village,"  she  said;  "they 
only  care  to  talk  about  their  own  petty  little 
concerns,  they  are  so  limited,  so  dull." 

"Not  all  of  them,"  Tanstead  protested.  "My 
father  lived  in  a  village  after  he  retired,  and  he'd 
spent  most  of  his  life  in  India." 

"My  dear  boy,  haven't  you  discovered  that 
India,  so  far  as  the  English  in  it  are  concerned, 
is  merely  a  big  village,  of  the  very  most  limited 
and  dull  kind?  You  are  helping  me  to  prove 
what  I  say." 

There  was  little  danger,  therefore,  that  Muriel 
would  want  to  share  the  new  cottage  save  at  very 
long  intervals. 


178     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"Danger,"  reflected  Tanstead,  half  bitterly, 
half  with  amusement.  "Here  I  am  congratu- 
lating myself  that  there's  no  risk  of  my  wife's 
wanting  to  be  with  me  at  week-ends,  and  yet  it's 
not  long  since  I  was  imagining  that  we  should 
never  want  to  be  apart.  Why  has  all  this  hap- 
pened to  me  of  all  men?" 

Yet  he  quickly  put  away  the  thought  of  Muriel 
as  he  had  once  imagined  her  to  be,  because  he 
felt  it  showed  disloyalty  to  Margaret;  and  the 
wish  which  had  sprung  into  his  mind  that  Muriel 
might  even  yet  give  him  the  affection  and  the 
home  that  he  longed  for  died  away  as  soon  as 
Margaret's  soft  hps  and  velvety  eyes  and  affec- 
tionate manner  came  before  his  mental  vision. 

Muriel  was  genuinely  glad  when  he  told  her  of 
the  purchase,  and  very  soon  went  down  to  see  it. 

"Who  hves  over  there?"  she  asked,  when  she 
looked  out  at  the  other  cottage. 

"It's  empty,"  he  said;  "but  I  beheve  someone 
is  coming  in  before  the  winter." 

His  heart  beat  more  strongly  as  he  said  this, 
and  he  looked  at  her  to  see  if  she  showed  any 
doubt  of  his  sincerity,  though  she  had,  of  course, 
no  reason  whatever  to  suspect  him.  She  made  no 
comment  and  gave  the  matter  no  further  thought. 

The  village  which  gave  the  cottages  their  pos- 
tal address  was  small  and  obscure.  Scarcely  any 
but  farming  folk  hved  in  or  near  it.  The  land 
for  miles  round  belonged  almost  all  of  it  to  one 
estate;  the  owner  lived  in  Algeria,  the  big  house 
was  shut  from  year's  beginning  to  year's  end; 
there  were  no  other  houses  of  any  size  or  impor- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     179 

tance  near.  There  was  little  likelihood,  therefore, 
of  anyone  in  the  neighbourhood  knowing  who 
Tanstead  was,  or  troubling  about  him.  Margaret 
was  to  be  known  by  her  own  name,  with  the  prefix 
of  "Mrs.,"  and  she  would  have  with  her  a  middle- 
aged  woman  who  had  once  been  employed  at 
her  farm-house  home,  and,  after  a  painful  experi- 
ence of  service  in  boarding-houses,  including 
Margaret's,  where  she  had  been  engaged  on  Mar- 
garet's recommendation,  was  only  too  glad  to 
get  back  into  the  cleanhness  and  quiet  of  the 
country. 

This  woman  would  look  after  Tanstead's  cot- 
tage. It  was  necessary  to  admit  her  into  the 
secret,  but  she  was  attached  to  her  former 
"young  mistress,"  and  given,  like  her,  to  "taking 
things  as  they  came,"  so  they  had  no  fear  of  her 
knowledge. 

All  the  arrangements  worked  out  well  in  execu- 
tion. The  cottages  were  simply  furnished.  Mar- 
garet had  no  knack  of  lending  a  room  charm, 
she  had  no  ideas  about  decoration  or  furniture, 
but  she  kept  the  place  exquisitely  clean,  and  al- 
ways had  bowls  of  flowers,  for  choice,  wild  flow- 
ers, set  about  the  rooms.  For  a  time  she  kept 
on  her  work  and  went  up  to  London  every  day 
from  a  station  two  and  a  half  miles  distant,  riding 
there  in  the  early  morning  and  back  again  in  the 
evening  on  a  bicycle  which  Tanstead  had  bought 
for  her,  and  delighting  in  it  all,  even  in  getting 
up  at  six  and  breakfasting  at  a  quarter  to  seven. 

Every  Saturday,  if  he  had  not  come  on  Friday 
evening,  Tanstead  motored  down  in  a  little  car 


180    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

he  had  bought  to  drive  himself,  and  went  back 
on  Monday  morning,  taking  Margaret  with  him 
ahnost  into  London,  and  putting  her  down  so 
that  she  might  finish  the  journey  by  Tube.  This 
went  on  for  several  months,  then  Margaret,  who 
was  expecting  a  child,  stayed  in  the  country  alto- 
gether, glad  to  give  up  work  which  she  had  never 
cared  about,  glad  to  be  free  to  walk  or  work 
in  the  garden  or  just  idle  and  let  her  fancy  picture 
what  her  child  would  be  like. 

Her  scruples  had  by  this  time  almost  entirely 
quieted  down.  She  saw  existence  neither  as  a 
puzzle  nor  as  a  muddle,  but  as  a  process  which 
must  have  design  and  order  in  it,  although  she 
could  not  see  them.  At  all  events  the  longing  of 
her  life  was  about  to  be  appeased.  The  joy  of 
motherhood  was  to  be  hers  at  last. 


/CHAPTER  XlVi 


For  ^ve  years  Tanstead  had  a  "home."  It 
brought  him  all  the  satisfaction  he  hoped  for.  At 
first  his  delight  in  the  knowledge  that  he  was 
loved  (and  loved  with  so  intense  a  devotion  that 
it  had  induced  a  woman  to  "give  up  everything 
for  him,"  as  he  phrased  it  to  himself  and  to  her) 
had  been  checkered  by  the  fear  of  discovery. 
As  months  passed,  and  then  years,  without  any 
suspicion  falling  upon  him,  he  took  it  for  granted 
that  none  would  ever  be  aroused.  His  life 
seemed  now  complete.  He  was  in  better  health, 
and  more  contented  to  fulfil  his  daily  round  of 
work  and  pleasure  than  he  had  been  since  he  was 
an  undergraduate. 

With  Muriel  he  was  on  excellent  terms.  She 
continued  to  help  him  with  his  briefs  and  really 
to  lighten  his  labour.  Most  of  a  barrister's  work 
is  of  the  plodding  order.  He  must,  if  he  is  to 
do  his  client  service,  have  wormed  his  mind 
through  every  detail  of  his  case.  The  quality 
which  commands  success  at  the  Bar  more  than 
any  other  is  industry.  Rarely  does  a  judge  dis- 
play any  intellectual  activity  in  any  other  sphere. 
Many  men  of  brilliant  talents  have  failed  at  the 
Bar;  many  have  reached  the  highest  legal  posi- 

i8i 


182     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

tions  with  no  equipment  beyond  average  ability 
and  an  infinite  capacity  for  taking  pains. 

It  was  by  relieving  him  of  a  good  deal  of  the 
grind  of  mastering  the  details  of  cases  that  Muriel 
helped  her  husband.  They  worked  together  eas- 
ily, all  the  more  easily  since  the  cottage  at  Budis- 
loe  had  been  set  up.  Tanstead's  attacks  of  sullen 
and  resentful  temper  had  ceased.  He  was  a 
pleasanter  companion,  and  Muriel  put  this  down 
to  the  health  value  of  week-ends  away  from  Lon- 
don. Once  or  twice  in  each  year  she  suggested 
herself  as  his  guest.  When  this  happened  Mar- 
garet either  went  away  or  stayed  indoors.  Muriel 
was  under  the  impression  that  the  woman  who 
came  in  to  do  for  Edward  was  the  tenant  of  the 
other  cottage.  She  had  never  seen  either  Mar- 
garet or  the  children ;  she  took  very  little  interest 
in  the  cottage  or  the  neighbourhood;  and  she 
never  could  imagine  what  he  did  with  himself 
when  he  was  down  there. 

He  accounted  for  his  time  by  pretending  that 
he  occupied  himself  in  the  garden.  She  accepted 
that  as  readily  as  she  would  have  believed  any 
other  explanation:  that  he  collected  snails,  for 
example,  or  studied  geology.  She  really  did  not 
care  how  he  spent  his  time.  She  was  very  glad 
to  be  left  alone  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays  to 
amuse  herself  as  she  pleased,  and  she  felt  sure 
that  their  weekly  separation  made  them  better 
friends  all  the  rest  of  the  time.  It  was  because 
Margaret  took  an  interest  in  all  his  doings,  be- 
cause nothing  that  concerned  him  could  fail  to 
stir  some  feeling  in  her,  and  because  she  showed 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     183 

this  so  affectionately,  that  he  thought  of  the 
cottage  as  "home."  Home  is  the  place  where 
somebody  wants  us,  where  our  absence  is  regret- 
ted and  our  return  welcomed  with  delight.  No 
one  who  Hves  alone  can  be  said  to  possess  a  home. 
It  may  be  only  a  dog  or  a  cat  or  an  old  servant, 
but  there  must  be  some  creature  to  smile  or  purr 
or  wag  a  friendly  tail  when  we  appear. 

That  was  what  Tanstead  had  missed  in  the  flat 
so  skilfully  furnished  and  decorated  by  Muriel. 
She  had,  he  knew,  a  gift  in  this  direction  which 
would  always  lend  her  surroundings  a  charm. 
But  this  to  his  mind  did  not  constitute  a  home. 
The  cottages  were  plain;  utilitarian  rather  than 
artistic  had  been  the  principle  followed  in  fitting 
them  up;  but  there  Tanstead  felt  that  he  was 
wanted.  The  flat  could  have  gone  on  quite  well 
without  him  (though  not  without  his  cheques). 
Muriel  Hked  him  well  enough,  he  knew  that ;  but 
she  had  never  got  beyond  liking.  She  was  only 
dependent  on  him  in  the  matter  of  money.  When 
he  got  back  in  the  evening  she  would  say:  "Hullo, 
Edward.  Had  a  good  day?"  and  he  would  not 
feel  that  he  had  changed  his  atmosphere.  The 
soft  lips  of  Margaret,  her  velvety  eyes  shining 
with  affection,  her  interest  in  him,  not  merely  in 
his  doings,  caused  all  his  being  to  vibrate  with 
happiness;  made  a  warmth  of  love  around  him, 
created  an  atmosphere  of  "home." 

Denser  and  more  comforting  this  became 
when  the  baby  was  there  to  add  its  chuckle  of 
welcome  and  to  kick  with  joy  when  it  saw  its 
father's  face.     Of  his  two  little  boys  Tanstead 


184    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

was  immensely  proud  and  fond.  They  opened 
up  entirely  new  avenues  of  interest  in  his  life. 
He  had  wished  for  children;  he  had  promised 
himself,  long  before  he  married,  the  dehght  of 
seeing  them  grow  and  develop  characters  of  their 
own;  now  he  could  say  that  he  had  certainly  not 
over-estimated  this  pleasure,  it  was  even  keener 
and  fuller  than  he  had  imagined  it. 

Of  the  future  of  his  boys  he  thought  often, 
but  he  purposely  kept  his  thoughts  vague.  There 
would  be  difficulties,  he  was  only  too  well  aware, 
about  their  name  and  parentage.  These,  how- 
ever, he  was  resolved  to  smooth  away  as  far  as 
he  could,  and  he  was  steadily  accumulating  a 
fund,  which  he  invested  in  Margaret's  name,  for 
her  and  their  support.  After  long  and  careful 
considering,  Margaret  had  decided  that  two  chil- 
dren were  enough.  She  had  shown  new  qualities 
of  foresight  and  prudence  since  she  had  others 
dependent  on  her,  and,  looking  forward,  she  made 
up  her  mind  that  to  put  aU  her  energies  into 
bringing  up  these  two  little  boys  and  giving 
them  every  chance  to  make  successes  of  their  lives 
would  be  wiser  than  to  have  a  large  family  and 
perhaps  be  unable  to  look  after  it  so  well. 

Herein  Margaret  was  more  cautious  than 
Mims  had  been,  not  because  she  had  a  better 
understanding,  but  because  she  belonged  to  a 
later  generation,  to  a  generation  more  accus- 
tomed to  take  Reason  for  its  guide  instead  of 
trusting  to  instinct  or  tradition.  Margaret  had 
no  idea  that  she  was  being  influenced  by  the 
JTime-spirit,  by  the  tendency  of  her  age.     She 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     185 

would  have  been  hard  put  to  it  to  say  what  was 
the  difference  between  Instinct  and  Reason  (es- 
pecially if  they  were  presented  to  her  spelt  with 
capital  letters).  But  she  could  not  escape  from 
the  effect  of  her  environment.  Implicit  in  the 
twentieth-century's  manner  of  discussing  every- 
thing is  the  assumption  that  we  can  shape  our 
own  lives  and  destinies,  and  that  it  is  our  duty 
to  shape  them  as  intelligently  as  we  can.  That 
duty  Margaret  admitted  and  was  determined  to 
the  best  of  her  ability  to  perform. 

She  had,  for  instance,  ideas  on  the  kind  of  up- 
bringing that  best  fitted  boys  to  take  their  part 
manfully  in  life.  Tanstead  had  brought  down 
for  her  one  day  Herbert's  Spencer's  Essays  on 
Education.  Some  parts  of  these  seemed  to  her 
sound;  from  other  parts  she  dissented  so  far  as 
to  call  the  author  "an  old  silly."  Agreement  and 
disagreement  combined  had  given  her  a  theory  of 
her  own,  and  once  or  twice  this  had  come  into 
conflict  with  Tanstead's  views,  which  were  that 
an  English  Public  School  education  was  the  fin- 
est possible.  However,  they  had  not  done  more 
than  just  touch  upon  this,  and,  as  Margaret  was 
in  the  habit  of  accepting  his  judgments,  he  gave 
the  matter  no  thought. 


Neither  Muriel  nor  Tanstead  was  much  trou- 
bled (that  was  how  Muriel  put  it)  by  relations. 
She  very  seldom  saw  any  of  her  family,  except 
a  sister  in  an  office  whvom  slie  some  I'm  es  took  out 


186     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

to  lunch,  and  her  brother  Douglas,  now  engineer 
to  a  Spanish  mine;  he  went  to  see  her  whenever 
he  was  in  London,  and  they  talked  about  old 
times,  but  found  nothing  else  to  talk  of.  He  had 
developed,  as  seemed  hkely  in  their  Hammer- 
smith days,  into  the  type  of  Englishman,  the 
usual  type  among  the  Ruling  and  Comfortable 
classes,  who  assimaes  that  any  opinions  other  than 
those  which  he  holds  are  cranky  and  that  what 
he  does  not  know  is  not  knowledge  worth  trou- 
bhng  his  lordly  head  about.  To  Douglas,  there- 
fore, Muriel  would  have  been  a  crank,  if  she  had 
not  married  a  man  who  earned  a  large  income; 
thereby  she  acquired  the  right  to  hold  eccentric 
views. 

Aunt  Sybilla  could  on  this  same  account  have 
forgiven  her  niece  a  good  deal,  if  Muriel  had 
shown  any  disposition  to  keep  up  friendly  rela- 
tions with  her.  As  Muriel  did  not.  Aunt  Sybilla 
never  missed  a  chance  of  saying  something  spite- 
ful about  her.  To  the  other  children  she  was 
merely  a  name.  They  had  only  vague  memories 
of  her.  Esther,  the  girl  in  the  office,  admired 
her  and  would  have  liked  to  talk  about  her  at 
home,  but  she  was  afraid,  as  they  all  were,  of 
Aunt  Sybilla's  bitter  tongue  and  the  satirical 
comments  she  was  always  ready  to  make  with 
that  effective  little  stammer  of  hers. 

"S-some  people  are  born  doormats,"  had  been 
rapped  out  once,  when  Esther  did  mention  her 
married  sister  and  some  kindness  she  had  done, 
"but  I'm  not  going  to  1-he  down  and  be  walked 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     187. 

over  by  anybody,  least  of  all  a  b-blood  relation." 

So  Esther  said  no  more. 

Periodically  the  Tansteads  paid  visits  to  his 
maiden  aunts  and  endured  their  bickering  among 
themselves  through  a  lunch  or  tea,  and  departed 
thankful  that  that  was  over.  An  entirely  differ- 
ent feeling  was  Tanstead's  towards  his  uncle,  the 
Bishop ;  they  had  never  given  up  writing  to  each 
other  and  giving  accounts  of  their  lives,  so  their 
hearts  had  kept  in  touch,  and  when,  after  many 
broken  plans,  the  Bishop  announced  at  last  that 
he  was  to  come  home  to  England  for  a  holiday, 
his  nephew  was  sincerely  pleased,  and  would  have 
altogether  delighted  in  the  prospect  if  he  had  been 
able  to  look  forward  to  introducing  the  Bishop 
to  Margaret  and  the  Httle  boys.  He  disliked 
having  any  secret  from  the  man  who  had  won  his 
love  and  gratitude  as  a  boy,  but  he  could  not  see 
how  it  could  possibly  be  disclosed. 


Out  of  a  third-class  railway  carriage  window 
the  Bishop  renewed  his  acquaintance  with  the 
landscape  of  south-western  England,  after  an 
absence  of  close  on  twenty  years.  He  looked 
at  the  park-hke  stretches  of  wooded  landscape 
across  which  the  low  sun  sent  long  shadows  of 
magnificent  oak  and  elm.  He  looked  at  the 
hedge-divided  fields,  the  ancient  churches  and  the 
red-roofed  villages  clustering  around  them.  He 
drank  in  the  quiet  beauty,  the  charm  of  tidiness 


188     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

and  tradition,  with  a  smile  of  enjoyment  on  his 
still  handsome,  strong,  clean-shaven  features. 

England,  he  reflected,  in  the  rural  parts  at  any 
rate,  still  had  that  atmosphere  of  immemorial 
order  and  comfort  that  distinguished  it  from 
other  countries.  If  one  were  set  down  haphazard 
somewhere  on  the  continent  of  Europe,  some- 
where in  America,  North  or  South,  it  would  be 
hard  to  tell  at  a  glance  which  country  one  was  in. 
Impossible  to  feel  any  such  doubt  in  the  EngUsh 
country-side. 

The  train  approached  a  town.  The  fields  were 
polluted  by  hideous  brick-boxes,  single  at  first, 
then  in  rows.  Gaunt  warehouses  stood  up  drear- 
ily, chimneys  foully  smoked,  a  huddle  of  buildings 
closed  round  the  railway  track,  beauty  and  charm 
were  obliterated. 

"That  isn't  England,"  the  Bishop  said  to  him- 
self. "You  can  see  that  sort  of  thing  everywhere, 
though  most  everywhere  it's  a  bit  better  than  that. 
The  cities  and  towns  aren't  English,  nor  are  the 
people  in  'em,  so  far  as  I  can  judge  from  the 
h  newspapers.    An  ill-balanced,  hysterical  lot!" 

But  the  train  was  soon  rushing  through  the 
country-side  again,  and  he  was  comforted,  and 
he  thought  to  himself  that  it  was  worth  staying 
away  so  long  to  get  so  much  pleasure  out  of 
coming  home.  Those  who  never  do  stay  long 
out  of  England  never  realise  what  love  of  home 
means.  To  return  after  an  absence  of  years  is  to 
feel  towards  the  country  as  no  home-keeping 
Englishman  can. 

He  was  still  in  this  mood  of  grateful  exhilara- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     189 

tion  next  morning  as  he  sat  in  the  Tansteads'  flat 
smoking  his  pipe  after  breakfast,  and  looking 
round  the  room.  It  was  a  pleasant  room,  sunny 
at  this  hour  of  the  morning,  always  light  and 
cheerful.  Over  the  mantelpiece  there  was  no  mir- 
ror, but  three  shelves  of  books.  On  the  walls 
hung  da  Vinci's  Gioconda,  Sargent's  Carmencita 
and  Bellini's  Holy  Family,  all  in  photogravure. 
Round  the  walls  were  low  bookcases;  standing 
upon  them  a  few  statuettes,  also  a  couple  of  Jap- 
anese prints.  The  effect  suggested  taste  and 
comfort,  thought  the  Bishop,  but  not  luxury. 
Anything  that  can  fairly  be  described  as  luxu- 
rious must  be  vulgar,  because  excessive.  This 
room  spoke  of  mind  and  eye  cultivated  in  the 
direction  of  beauty.  So  far  the  surroundings 
seemed  to  suggest  that  his  godson  had  made  wise 
choice  of  a  wife. 

§  iv 

He  had  scarcely  seen  Muriel  the  night  before. 
He  had  reached  the  house  late;  she  only  gave 
him  greeting  and  welcome,  then  left  him  to  Ed- 
ward. In  that  brief  space  of  time  the  impression 
she  received  had  been  a  pleasant  one.  Save  for 
his  dress,  the  Bishop  would  have  looked  less  like 
an  ecclesiastic  than  a  prosperous  landowner  from 
some  British  dominion  or  possession  overseas. 
He  was  tall  and  well  set-up.  His  fifty-six  years 
had  passed  lightly  over  him.  His  open-air  Hfe 
kept  old  age  at  bay.  With  the  eyes  of  an  ideahst, 
he  combined  the  chin  of  a  man  of  action.  His 
eager  expression  was  meant  to  show  that  he  of- 


190     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

fered  perpetual  challenge  to  slackness  and  sham: 
he  honestly  believed  that  he  did. 

Before  he  sat  down  again,  after  getting  up  to 
look  at  the  BeUini,  while  he  warmed  his  hands, 
Muriel  joined  him. 

"Oh,  Bishop,"  she  began,  "I'm  so  sorry,  I've 
kept  you  waiting  for  breakfast." 

"No,  no,"  he  said.  "I  had  breakfast  with  Ed- 
ward an  hour  ago." 

"I'm  glad  for  your  sake.  I  should  have  liked 
your  company,  though." 

"You  shall  have  it  now.    My  pipe  can  wait." 

"Oh  no,  please  go  on  smoking.  I'm  going  to 
myself,  as  soon  as  I've  had  a  cup  of  tea." 

"Going  to  smoke?"  asked  the  Bishop,  with  in- 
credulous amazement  in  his  tone. 

"Don't  women  smoke  in  Patagonia?"  she  in- 
quired lightly,  ringing  the  bell  for  her  tea. 

"I  should  like  to  see  them  try  it,"  said  the 
Bishop,  with  a  grim  smile. 

"Oh,  Bishop,  you  don't  disapprove,  do  you? 
Didn't  you  know  we  all  smoked  nowadays?" 

"I  have  read  something  of  the  kind  in  the  news- 
papers from  home,"  the  Bishop  answered  gravely. 

"But  I  thought  they  meant "    He  finished 

the  sentence  with  a  shrug. 

"Oh  no,"  said  Muriel;  "quite  respectable 
women  do  it.  You'd  call  me  respectable, 
wouldn't  you?" 

"My  dear  Muriel,  I  only  saw  you  for  a  few 
minutes  last  night,"  the  Bishop  began  heavily. 
A  laugh  from  her  showed  him  his  blunder.  It 
was  nearly  twenty  years  since  he  had  indulged  in 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     191 

badinage  of  this  frivolous  kind.  "I  meant  to 
say,"  he  went  on,  "how  can  you  ask  such  a  ques- 
tion?" 

"Well,"  she  said,  "you  never  know,  do  you? 
Suppose  you  had  come  home  and  found  your 
godson  married  to " 

"Muriel,  please  I" 

With  a  gay  little  laugh,  she  dismissed  the  last 
idea  and  changed  the  subject. 

"Well,  how  did  you  sleep?" 

"Soundly.  After  Patagonia  and  six  weeks  on 
board  ship,  well,  you  can't  beat  EngUsh  beds. 
They  haven't  deteriorated,  at  any  rate." 

Muriel  looked  at  him  oddly. 

"What  papers  do  you  read  in  Patagonia?"  she 
asked. 

"Oh,  The  Weekly  Times  and  the  Guardian, 
and But  why?" 

"I  was  wondering  what  made  you  think  Eng- 
land was  deteriorating." 

"Hasn't  it?"  he  said  shortly. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  lightly. 

"I  don't  know.  We  aren't  quite  so  stuffy  as 
we  used  to  be,  if  you  mean  that.  Women  aren't, 
I  mean." 

"Stuffy?"  repeated  the  Bishop  inquiringly. 

"Not  so  dull  and  domestic  and  dear-mam- 
maish — see-the-cook-every-moming-after-break- 
fast,  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know." 

"It  seems  a  convenient  hour,"  the  Bishop  re- 
flected. 

"What  does?  Oh,  to  see  the  cook?  Yes,  if 
one  wants  to  see  her.'* 


192     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

*'You  must  order  dinner,  I  suppose." 

"Why?  That's  what  I  pay  the  cook  to  do- 
or rather,  Edward  does.  I  haven't  a  penny,  you 
know." 

"Fortunately,  Edward  is  doing  well  at  the 
Bar,  so  he  tells  me." 

"Yes,  he's  getting  quite  a  big  practice.  He 
works  hard  enough.  How  did  he  look  this  morn- 
ing?" 

"A  little  pale,  I  thought,"  the  Bishop  made 
answer,  evidently  surprised.  "But  haven't  you 
seen  him?" 

Muriel  looked  surprised  now.  Pausing,  tea- 
cup in  hand,  and  looking  at  him  with  raised 
brows,  "Oh,  no,"  she  said,  "I  never  get  up  to 
breakfast  when  he  is  so  early." 

"But,"  stammered  the  Bishop,  "before  break- 
fast?" 

"No,"  she  said,  quite  unconcerned,  pouring  out 
another  cup  of  tea,  "not  unless  he  has  anything 
particular  to  say." 

"Then  you  don't "     He  hesitated  for  a 

phrase. 

Muriel  looked  up  puzzled,  but  at  once  caught 
his  meaning. 

"Oh,  we've  always  had  our  own  rooms." 

"I  see." 

"That's  not  the  fashion  in  Patagonia?"  asked 
Muriel,  just  a  shade  spitefully,  annoyed  by  the 
disapproval  implied  in  his  look  and  tone. 

"No,"  he  said  gently. 

Then  there  was  a  lull  in  the  conversation. 

"I've  been  looking  at  your  pictures,"  he  said 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     193 

after  a  pause  of  some  instants,  "especially  that 
Madonna  and  Child." 

"Oh,  the  Bellini,"  she  said  indifferently.  "Ed- 
ward stuck  that  up." 

"Don't  you  care  for  it,  then?" 

"All  the  Madonnas  are  so  much  alike,  aren't 
they?" 

The  Bishop  looked  at  her  closely. 

"Edward  used  to  be  very  fond  of  children," 
he  said. 

"Yes,  very,"  she  replied  lightly.    "He  is  still." 

"Are  you?" 

"I?  No,  I  don't  think  I  am.  When  they're 
tiny,  they  dribble.  It  makes  me  feel  sick.  Then 
they  get  older,  and  do  nothing  but  ask  questions 
and  have  the  measles." 

"Muriel,"  said  the  Bishop  impressively,  "may 
I  ask  you  an  intimate  question?" 

"Fire  away.  I  mean,  ask  anything  you  like. 
Bishop." 

"What  do  you  consider  to  be  the  object  of 
marriage?" 

Muriel  reflected  with  her  pretty  head  on  one 
side. 

"It's  a  convenient  arrangement — sometimes. 
I  suppose  originally  it  was  invented  by  your  pro- 
fession." 

"Please  try  to  be  serious." 

Muriel  made  a  wry  face. 

"Children,"  the  Bishop  continued,  "not  only 
brighten,  they  sanctify  a  home." 

"1  hope  you  aren't  going  to  begin  lecturing 
me  about  Home,  Bishop,"  said  Muriel  gaily.  "It 


194     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

suggests  so  much  that  is  tiresome  and  stuffy." 
"To  me,"  said  the  Bishop,  "it  suggests  all  that 
is  touching  and  beautiful." 

"I'm  delighted  to  hear  it.  Family  prayers, 
I  suppose,  and  roast  beef  at  one  o'clock  on  Sun- 
days, and  dear  papa  with  whiskers,  and  dear 
mamma  in  cap  and  shawl,  and  music  after  din- 
ner, and  bed  at  ten,  and  interesting  events — loath- 
some phrase — once  a  year.  Now  you're  shocked, 
I  suppose.     I'm  sorry.    I  beg  your  pardon." 

The  Bishop  said  nothing.  He  bent  his  head 
in  silent  acknowledgment. 


CHAPTER  XV 


"But  if  your  tastes  aren't  .  .  .  aren't  domestic, 
Muriel,"  the  Bishop  began  again  after  a  few 
moments,  "how  do  you  spend  your  time?" 

"I  read  a  good  deal.  I  go  about  and  see  peo- 
ple. And  I  work  quite  hard  at  dressmaking 
sometimes." 

"Dressmaking?  But  surely  there  is  no 
need " 

"No  need,  exactly,"  she  said.  "It  amuses  me. 
I'm  rather  clever  at  it.  And  we  don't  live  at  a 
great  rate,  you  know." 

"But  a  man  with  Edward's  practice " 

"Oh,  we  have  enough — quite  as  much  as  we 
want." 

"You  go  out  of  town  a  good  deal,  perhaps?" 

"Edward  is  generally  away  from  Saturday  to 
Monday." 

"Without  you?" 

"Cer-tain-ly,"  replied  Muriel  playfully.  "It 
does  him  good.  It  does  us  both  good.  We  have 
much  more  to  say  when  we  haven't  seen  each 
other  for  a  day  or  two." 

"You  speak,"  said  the  Bishop,  knocking  out 
the  ashes  of  his  pipe  against  the  grate,  "as  if  you 
were  merely  friends." 

195 


196     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"It's  when  husbands  and  wives  aren't  friends 
that  they  lead  cat-and-dog  lives,"  returned  Muriel 
defiantly. 

The  Bishop  ignored  the  challenge. 

"Is  this  going  away  a  recent  development?" 
he  asked. 

"No,  Edward's  made  a  habit  of  it  for  a  long 
time — three  or  four  years,  I  should  think.  He 
lets  me  go  away  too  whenever  I  want  to." 

"You  do  ask  his  leave,  then?"  said  the  Bishop 
grimly. 

"Not  leave  exactly,"  pouted  Muriel.  "We 
talk  it  over." 

"So  the  modern  wife  is  not  entirely  indepen- 
dent," the  Bishop  growled. 

Muriel  looked  up  at  him  doubtfully. 

"You  aren't  being  horrid  to  me.  Bishop,  are 
you?" 

"I  hope  not,"  he  repHed. 

"I  think  you're  a  little — shall  I  say  old-fash- 
ioned?— you  know.  It's  bad  for  women  to  be 
dependent  on  men." 

The  Bishop's  eyebrows  went  up. 

"They  always  have  been,"  he  said  shortly. 

"Well,  if  they  have,  that's  why  so  many  of  them 
have  been  unhappy.  It's  sure  to  make  them 
unhappy  sooner  or  later.  Men  don't  like  it 
either — not  the  right  kind  of  men." 

The  Bishop  was  evidently  puzzled. 

"But  how  can  a  wife  be  independent  of  her 
husband?" 

"Quite  easily,"  said  Muriel.  "She  ought  to 
be  independent  in  the  money  way,  if  possible. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     197 

and  certainly  in — in  other  ways,"  she  concluded 
Taguely. 

"What  other  ways?" 

"Oh,  they  shouldn't  be  too  wrapped  up  in  their 
husbands.  They  needn't  think  the  world  would 
come  to  an  end  for  them  if  they  dissolved  part- 
nership. Edward  and  I  get  on  very  well  to- 
gether, better  than  most  people  I  know.  But  if 
he  wanted  to  break  things  up,  I  could  stand  alone. 
I  shouldn't  object.'* 

"But  you're  man  and  wife,"  protested  the 
Bishop. 

"Haven't  you  ever  heard  of  man  and  wife  de- 
ciding to  be  friends  at  a  distance?" 

"Never,"  said  the  Bishop,  with  disapproving 
emphasis. 

"You  are  behind  the  time." 

The  Bishop's  reply  was,  perhaps  fortunately, 
prevented  by  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  the  servant 
showing  in  Tony. 

The  years  had  brought  to  Tony  his  aunt's 
money ;  it  was  enough  to  keep  him  very  comforta- 
bly; in  general,  however,  it  had  not  improved 
him.  He  had  given  up  even  the  pretence  of 
working.  He  had  put  on  flesh  and  lost  the  eager 
look  from  his  eyes ;  his  smile,  though  still  attract- 
ive, had  not  any  longer  its  irresistible  charm. 
He  was  not  so  ready  as  he  once  had  been  to  make 
fun  of  everything  and  everybody,  though  when 
his  fancy  inclined  that  way  he  could  be  delight- 
fully funny.  He  seemed  satisfied  with  the  situa- 
tion of  Muriel's  tame  cat  into  which  he  had 
slipped  pretty  soon  after  her  marriage,  at  first 


198     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

to  the  annoyance,  but  later  on  to  the  relief  of 
Tanstead,  who  was  sincerely  glad,  after  his  sec- 
ond household  had  been  set  up,  that  Muriel  should 
have  someone  to  take  her  about,  someone  upon 
whom  she  could  rely  for  companionship  and  who 
amused  her. 

"Morning,  Tony,"  said  Muriel.  "Come  to  ask 
me  to  go  motoring?" 

"That's  the  idea,"  he  answered,  with  a  glance 
of  curiosity  at  the  Bishop. 

"A  good  guess,  wasn't  it?"  she  went  on,  and 
then,  turning  to  the  Bishop :  "Bishop,"  she  said, 
"this  is  Tony." 

The  Bishop  looked  blank. 

"Surely  Edward's  told  you  about  him?" 
]Miu*iel  queried — "Tony  Hilford,  a  great  friend 
of  ours." 

"Ah,  I  believe  .  .  .  yes,  I  think  I  remember." 

The  Bishop  shook  hands  rather  disapprovingly, 

Muriel  thought.     He  made  no  remark.     Tony 

glanced  at  her  with  a  flicker  of  amusement  in 

his  eye. 

"Well,"  she  said  briskly,  "what  time  do  you 
want  to  start?" 

"Twelve  o'clock,  eh?  Looks  like  being  quite 
a  decent  day.    I'll  be  round  with  the  car." 

He  looked  at  the  Bishop,  but  the  Bishop  was 
attending  to  his  pipe,  so  Tony  murmured, 
"Au'voir,"  and  went  out.  Muriel  was  busy  with 
a  bowl  of  flowers,  rearranging  them,  cutting 
their  stalks.  There  was  a  silence  after  Tony  had 
gone  out.  Then,  looking  over  the  Bishop  with 
an  expression  half  amused,   half  defiant,   she 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     19^1 

asked:  "You  don't  quite  approve  of  me,  do  you?** 

"I  claim  no  right  to  criticise,"  said  the  Bishopi 
coldly. 

"Surely  there  is  no  need  to  claim  that.  It's 
the  one  right  we're  all  born  with.  Think  how; 
dull  life  would  be  without  it  I" 

"I  admit,"  the  Bishop  said,  ignoring  her  chaff, 
"that  I  am  a  little  surprised.  Do  you  often  go 
out  driving  with  Mr. — er,  Hilford?" 

"Now  do,  for  goodness  sake,  let  us  get  this 
cleared  up  for  once." 

Muriel  put  the  flowers  down  and  went  over 
and  faced  him. 

"Please  understand  that  I  am  not  in  love  with 
Tony,  and  Tony  isn't  in  love  with  me.  He  is 
often  here,  very  often.  He  lives  just  round  the 
corner.  And  I  often  go  out  with  him.  But  we're 
just  friends.  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  In  your 
young  days  a  wife's  best  friend  was  her  husband 
— ^her  only  friend,  in  fact.  But,  dear  Bishop, 
don't  be  Early  Victorian,  Am  I  abominably 
rude?" 

"Don't  apologise.  I  like  frankness,"  the 
Bishop  answered,  grim  again. 

"Do  you  really?  In  other  people?  That's 
sweet  of  you.  Then  you  aren't  Early  Victorian 
a  bit.     Ah,  here's  Edward  back." 

Tanstead,  unlike  Tony,  had  kept  the  buoyancy 
of  youth.  He  had  escaped,  as  Muriel  hoped  he 
would,  the  bloodless,  expressionless  face,  the 
ferret-like  nose,  the  dull  eyes  which  disfigure  so 
many  successful  advocates.  He  did  not  look  any 
older  than  he  looked  when  Muriel  and  he  first 


200    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

met;  indeed  the  very  slight  greying  of  his  hair 
at  the  sides  took  away  its  wig-like  aspect  and 
made  him  appear  actually  younger.  Muriel  felt 
proud  of  him  as  he  came  boyishly  into  the  room. 

"At  any  rate,  I've  kept  him  from  premature 
old  age,"  she  said  to  herself.  "The  Bishop  will 
have  to  give  me  credit  for  that." 

"Well,  Pater,"  Tanstead  said,  "I  haven't  been 
long,  have  I  ?  Now  I've  got  the  day  clear.  Morn- 
ing, Muriel,  how  are  you?  Oh,  by  the  way,  what 
about  the  papers  in  that  trespass  case?  Have 
you  looked  at  them?" 

"No,  but  I  will  now.  I'll  give  you  an  idea  of 
them  after  dinner.  You'll  be  in  to  dinner  to- 
night, of  course?" 

"Yes,  rather." 

"On  a  Saturday  1  Quite  an  event!"  she  said. 
"I'll  go  and  read  them  now.  Excuse  me.  Bishop, 
won't  you?" 

She  gathered  up  the  flowers  to  take  them  with 
her. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,"  Edward  asked  her,  "what 
about  that  invitation  from  the  Vennings?" 

"I  accepted.    You  meant  to  go,  didn't  you?'* 

"Yes;  they  generally  get  some  amusing  peo- 
ple. But  I  thought  we  had  something  else  for 
Tuesday  week." 

"No.  Only  the  pictures  in  the  afternoon. 
You'll  come  with  me  there,  won't  you?" 

"If  I  can,  and  if  you'll  explain  them  to  me." 

"Trust  me,"  replied  Muriel  gaily,  as  she  went 
out. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     201 

§ii 

"Well,  Pater,'*  Edward  said,  turning  to  his 
godfather,  "sunshine,  a  hohday  and  you:  splen- 
didl" 

But  the  Bishop  was  still  pondering  over  some- 
thing which  had  gone  before. 

"Does  your  wife  help  in  your  work,  then?" 
he  asked.     "She  didn't  tell  me  that." 

"Yes,  she's  got  a  capital  head  for  my  kind 
of  work.  It's  an  interest  for  her,  and  it  saves 
me  a  certain  amount  of  grind." 

"H'm.    Rather  short  of  interests,  isn't  she?" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  Edward  answered;  "not  as 
women  go  nowadays.  We  always  find  plenty  to 
talk  about." 

The  Bishop  looked  at  him  keenly  for  a  mo- 
ment.   Then  he  seemed  to  take  a  decision. 

"Edward,  my  boy,"  he  began,  "are  you 
happy?" 

"Yes,  Pater,  happy  enough." 

"I've  had  a  talk  with  Muriel,"  the  Bishop  went 
on. 

"WeU?" 

"How  have  things  come  to  this  pass  between 
you?" 

"What  has  she  told  you?"  asked  Tanstead  in 
some  surprise. 

"Quite  enough.    I  know  all  about  it." 

"Well,"  said  Edward  slowly — he  naturally 
found  it  difficult  to  discuss  the  matter — "it's  been 
like  that  since — well,  pretty  well  ever  since  we 
were  married." 


dOS    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 
*^ot  ndne,  wmJbanUfy,  or  wh^  aiiaiild  I  bsvc 


"IVIhfir  did  ]Mn  aUopir  itr  Ife  B&hop  adkcd.  m 
a  tooe  of  m^tf^f^  aaBncment  and  indigmliop. 

Edwmid  snifed  gpanilp. 

""We  don't  tdk  aboot  'allowiiig^  women  to  do 
tfciqgi  Tomadmym.  TbaVe  Mnnd  die  tknes, 
Pktar.- 

*1  cant  iBMJmiaiid  iL  Ton  wiole  and  told 
■K  wken  jm  neve  cnigiged  tihat  joa  liad  f oond 
Ike  hey  to  Ae  pmde  of  fife.    IHd  jon  lose  it 


*nrcs»"*  ifpBrd  Edivaid  icflectniig^,  Tor  a 


""Yon  waiiird  a  CBoify',  didnt  jon?^ 

'^  nnd  to  dream  bcf ewe  ire  wax 

ke  aid  Amfy,  "Vbat  I  mm  Mand  widi  a  dnld 

inkeraiBS.    It  was  a  woudeif ui — a  wondezfid 


"Aad  wkf  iMnt  it  cme  traer* 
"Hand   Bcrer   looktd    at    Oii^    in    that 
wigr-** 

lOi^  in  tihe  mme  of— «r  all  fliatf  s  m- 
did  die  amiy  y%n.T* 
1  daB\  flaafc^"  and  Edivaid  skvivfy,  *that 


w^  hay,  there  imt  a  giA  in 


ao^**  idnrtod  Edwaid  sncasbcaify;. 
'%  no  hqgjhcr  wtiralinn  for  women  in 
isttcxer' 


THE  FRUrr  OF  THE  TREE     203 

"Bui.  God  Ues  my  -:      c^Jd  tije  JSahap, 

*>oa  dant  mean  to  fdl       

TntelljaijiBtiviti  ^ned,  FUcr,**  sttd 

Edivaid  quidly.    '"JMbir  -  realfy  caie  liar 

mc  I  mas  so  mnch  in  !  ^  '^^^'t  see  ft. 
She  fiked  me  wcH  oiaii.. 


soon.'' 

"Vadn^  die  cvo*  read  liie  maniage  scrwioe?* 
famed  tibe  Bishop. 

"H  smuMMC  she'd  heard  it  read,  hot  fkej  linr 
that  part  owcr.  Vamms  seem  a  fait  afaid  <tf  iL 
Pedb^s  hrcaunHC  Ihey  gnxsaStf  have  aodk  h^ 
^■milii'*  tiberasdvcsL  Anjwaj,  MBrid  didnt 
arant  chiHren.** 

**A.  wife   who  cwades  Ac  nwmnjpKntt ,%  for     v^ 
adndi  marriafle  was  iiiriilHlwl,**  said  tibe  BUup 

sentadioDsfy,    *%   no   hetler   than -**     S£e 

stopped,  and  then  added:  ""In  fact.  Ikerei's  no 
difflcience  that  I  can  see. 

"WdDLMmidtiioueiifcdhehadmadememider- 
staidl  Imiw  siie  f dL" 

*Bcf cse  jon  were  maniwl,  jon  mean!* 

*Tcs.    She'd  fned  to  drop  me  a  hint" 

*Tf  yon'd  nndeEstood  it,  joa  wooldn^  have 
manicdherr 

**I  dnalda^  have  hefieved  she  mrant  iL 

'"Wlnt  sort  of  a  hmt  was  itf* 

'"When  I  a^ed  her  wh^  she  hadnt  tnU  me 
pfainfy,  she  said  ihat  one  iay  on  an  owmihnt  she 
pointed  to  a  mnae  with  a  penmbnlatar,  and  told 
me  she  eoaUfaat  stand  ttat  sort  of  filing:  She 
Ihningfat  that  was  plain  ffinngh,  die  sod.** 

*Biil,  m^  dear  Edward,'"  tte  Bidnp  pot  m. 


204     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

knocking  his  pipe  out  against  the  grate,  "it  was 
your  duty  to  put  all  objections  aside." 

"That's  easy  enough  to  say,  Pater.  But  I 
had  my  feelings  too." 

"Of  course.  The  proper  feelings,  the  natural 
feelings." 

"I  thought  so.    I  think  so  still." 

"Well,  then?"  said  the  Bishop  interrogatively. 

Edward  let  a  few  moments  pass  before  he  re- 
plied.   Then  he  said,  with  some  impatience: 

"It's  all  very  well  to  argue.  Put  yourself  in 
my  place." 

"You  talked  to  her?"  inquired  his  godfather. 

"I  tried  to." 

"Hadn't  it  any  effect  at  all?" 

"None  whatever.  So  I  let  her  go  her  own 
way." 

"You  were  wrong,  my  boy,  very  wrong,"  said 
the  Bishop. 

"It  was  the  only  way.  I  don't  say  it  couldn't 
be  done,  but  I  couldn't  do  it." 

"It  was  lamentably  weak  of  you,  Edward." 

"I  tell  you,  Pater,  I  had  no  choice." 

"And  so  for  all  these  years,"  said  the  Bishop 
heavily,  and  then  stopped,  struck  by  a  sudden 
thought.  "Edward,"  he  inquired  sharply, 
"where  do  you  go  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays?'* 

Edward  turned  quickly  and  faced  him. 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  about  this  habit  of  yours 
too.    Where  do  you  go?" 

"Oh,  into  the  country,  you  know,"  Edward 
answered  lightly. 

"By  yourself?" 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     205 

"No,  not  as  a  rule.    Did  Muriel  tell  you?" 

"Yes." 

"What  else  did  she  say  about  it?" 

"Nothing  whatever.  Edward,  where  do  you 
go?" 

Edward  got  up  and  walked  over  to  the  fire- 
place uneasily. 

"Pater,"  he  said,  "I  meant  to  tell  you.  I'd 
made  up  my  mind  to  it." 

"Ha!"  interjected  the  Bishop,  "so  there  is 
something  to  tell." 

§  iii 

Tanstead  sat  down  nervously  at  the  table. 

The  Bishop  took  a  chair  on  the  opposite  side 
and  put  his  elbows  on  the  table  in  a  waiting  atti- 
tude. 

"You  trust  me  still.  Pater,  don't  you?"  Ed- 
ward began. 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  ventured  the  Bishop  grimly. 
"Let  me  hear." 

"But  you'd  give  me  the  benefit  of  the  doubt," 
persisted  his  godson.  "Suppose  you'd  heard  I'd 
done  something  you  are  accustomed  to  call  dis- 
graceful, you  wouldn't  condemn  me  offhand?" 

"Anything  I  call  disgraceful,  Edward,  my  boy, 
is  disgraceful." 

Then  with  an  emphasis  born  of  sudden  illimii- 
nation  the  Bishop  added :  "You  spend  your  week- 
ends with  another  woman!" 

"Let  me  explain,  Pater.  Defer  judgment. 
Give  me  a  chance." 


4 


i 


206     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"WeU,  go  on." 

"For  two  years  I  stood  it.  I  hoped  things 
would  come  right.    I  told  myself  they  must." 

"No  other  man  in  the  case?"  inquired  the 
Bishop,  evidently  rather  proud  of  his  worldly 
intuition. 

"No." 

"Sure?" 

"Yes,  quite." 

"And  you  get  on  well  otherwise?" 

"Very  well  indeed." 

"You  didn't  pretend  not  to  care?" 

"No;  she  knew  I  cared  a  great  deal,  so  much 
that  I  thought  it  impossible  she  could  go  on  not 
caring.  I  had  never  dreamed  of  such  a  situation 
arising.  It  seemed  so  extraordinary  such  a  thing 
should  happen  to  me." 

"Wasn't  there  any  alteration  as  time  went 
on?" 

"None  at  all.  She  was  pleased  enough  to  go 
about  with  me,  or  to  be  at  home  with  me.  She 
began  to  take  an  interest  in  my  work.  Intellectu- 
ally it  was  a  capital  arrangement.  But  to  me  it 
was  unsatisfactory,  unsatisfying." 

"You  had  hoped  for  a  family?" 

"Yes,  I  had,  and  for  a  wife  who — ^who  cared." 

"Well,  you  went  on  hoping  for  two  years. 
And  then?" 

"One  day  in  April — ^we'd  been  married  a  cou- 
ple of  years  in  March — I  wanted  to  dictate  some 
letters,  and  I  sent  out  for  a  typist.  A  girl 
came " 

"Abominable  1"  interjected  the  Bishop. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     207 

"My  dear  Pater,  girls  must  earn  a  living." 

"What  a  state  of  things!" 

"At  first  I  took  no  particular  notice  of  her." 

"This  was  at  your  chambers,  of  course?" 

"Yes." 

"Weil?" 

"Well,  we  talked  a  little.  She  made  me  feel 
rather  sorry  for  her." 

"That  was  a  symptom  which  ought  to  have 
warned  you." 

"She  wasn't  particularly  pretty,  but  there  was 
a  look  in  her  eyes,  a  look  of  expectation,  of  pa- 
tience, that  touched  me." 

"You  should  have  sent  her  away  at  once." 

"What  an  old  cynic  you  are.  Pater,"  said  Ed- 
ward, half  humorously,  half  annoyed. 

"I  know  how  many  beans  make  five,  my  boy," 
replied  the  Bishop,  and  set  his  lips  tight.  "Well," 
he  continued,  after  an  instant's  silence,  "you 
began  to  pity  her.    What  for?" 

"I  could  see  she  wasn't  content  to  be  a  clerk. 
She  was  a  motherly  sort  of  type,  or,  better  still, 
a  Madonna-like  type — one  of  those  pleasant, 
homely  Madonnas  you  see  in  Umbria." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know  the  type." 

"Her  father  was  a  farmer,  it  appeared.  She 
was  a  capable  country  girl,  brought  up  to  make 
herself  useful,  and  then  by  some  freak  of  Fate 
pitchforked  into  a  typewriting  office.  Father  and 
mother  dead.  No  relations  to  speak  of.  Lived 
in  a  boarding-house  for  business  women.  Hadn't 
spoken  to  a  man  except  in  the  way  of  business 
for  months." 


208    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"So  you  made  an  impression,"  said  the  Bishop, 
grim  again. 

"We  liked  one  another,  certainly." 

"And  that  wasn't  the  last  time  you  dictated 
to  her?" 

"No,  I  got  into  the  habit  of  it.  And  then  one 
night  I  took  her  out  to  Richmond." 

"You  didn't  mention  it  to  your  wife,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"Not  that  time.  I  had  said  something  to  her, 
I  forget  what  exactly.  If  I'd  told  her  all  about 
it  she'd  only  have  been  amused." 

"Amused?"  echoed  the  Bishop  in  shocked 
tones.    "What  at?" 

"At  the  idea  of  having  a  possible  rival." 

"Wouldn't  she  have  minded?" 

"Not  a  bit.  She  had  always  said  I  could  go 
my  own  way,  as  she  put  it,  if  I  wanted  to.  Up 
to  then  I  hadn't  wanted." 

"And  after  the  outing  to  Richmond?" 

"I  took  her  home,  not  even  in  a  cab,  by  train, 
and  said  good-night  in  an  off-hand  way  at  the 
door." 

"And  then,"  said  the  Bishop,  "the  outings  be- 
came regular?" 

"GraduaUy,  yes." 

"And  you  left  off  mentioning  them  to  your 
wife?" 

"It  annoyed  me  that  she  should  laugh.  Of 
course  I  knew  she  didn't  care,  but  the  laugh 
rubbed  it  in." 

"You  got  over  your  dislike  of  deceit?" 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     209 

"I  couldn't  altogether.  I  haven't  altogether 
yet." 

With  an  incredulous  "H'ml"  the  Bishop 
pushed  back  his  chair,  got  up  and  walked  to  the 
fireplace.  He  stood  for  almost  a  minute,  looking 
into  the  fire. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


When  at  last  he  turned  round,  the  Bishop  spoke 
sorrowfully. 

"You've  terribly  disappointed  me,  Edward," 
he  lamented. 

"Yes,"  replied  Edward,  "I  disappointed  my- 
self— at  any  rate,  one  part  of  myself.  I  knew 
it  was  disgraceful  and  all  that." 

"Repentance  without  amendment." 

"I  couldn't  believe  in  such  a  thing  happening 
to  me.  If  anyone  had  told  me  that  three  years 
after  marriage  I  should  be  making  love  to  another 
woman,  the  very  thought  would  have  shocked 
me.  I  always  hated  that  kind  of  thing.  I  never 
had  any  idea  that  we  shouldn't  live  together  as 
happily  as  other  married  people  I  knew." 

"Why  on  earth  didn't  you?" 

"My  dear  Pater,  I've  been  telling  you." 

"No,  no,  you've  merely  told  me  the  fact.  You 
haven't  explained  it." 

"You  must  ask  Muriel  to  do  that." 

"Well,  well,  but  even  if — Two  blacks  don't 
make  a  white,"  said  the  Bishop,  with  sledge- 
hammer emphasis. 

"Sometimes  I  almost  think  they  do,"  returned 
Edward  bitterly.    "I  suppose,"  he  added  more 

210 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     211 

gently,  "you'll  say  I've  lost  my  moral  standard." 

"I'm  trying  to  judge  you  kindly,  my  boy," 
said  the  Bishop.  "Don't  sneer  and  make  it  harder 
for  me." 

"I've  changed,  I  know,"  Edward  admitted. 
"Men  do  change  as  they  go  through  life.  Cir- 
cumstances change  them." 

"A  strong  man  is  stronger  than  circum- 
stances," the  Bishop  retorted. 

"A  strong  man  gets  what  he  wants  out  of 
life.  If  he  fails  once,  he  tries  again.  If  the  usual 
road  is  blocked,  he  finds  out  a  path  for  himself." 

"By  a  strong  man,  you  evidently  mean  one 
without  principles." 

"I'm  not  unprincipled.  Pater.  But  somehow 
life  is  a  bigger  thing  than  a  principle." 

"That's  the  excuse  all  big  sinners  make." 

"I've  done  wrong,  I  know,"  Edward  answered, 
"but  I'm  not  a  wrong  'un.  I  used  to  think  any- 
one who  did  the  sort  of  thing  I've  done  must  be 
bad  all  through.    I  know  now  it  isn't  so." 

"You're  playing  with  your  conscience,  my 
boy." 

"I  thought  such  a  man  must  deteriorate  all 
round." 

"So  he  must,"  broke  in  the  Bishop;  "he's 
bound  to." 

"Honestly,  I  don't  think  I  have." 

"Hard  cases  make  bad  law,"  the  Bishop  said. 
"You're  a  lawyer  and  can't  help  knowing  that." 

"Bad  laws  make  hard  cases  too." 

"You  wouldn't  abolish  the  law  of  marriage?'* 

"No,  of  course  not.     But  look  here,  you'll 


212     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

admit,  I  suppose,  that  marriage  is  a  contract?" 

"A  sacred  contract." 

"Well,  if  one  party  to  a  contract  doesn't  keep 
it,  the  other  party  isn't  bound  by  it." 

"Now  you're  quoting  man's  law." 

"But  you  wouldn't  deny  the  justice  of  it?'* 

"Man^s  justice,"  said  the  Bishop,  with  emphasis 
on  "man's." 

"It's  unthinkable  that  God  could  be  less  just 
than  man." 

"No,  no,  Edward,  ycai  can't  convince  me  with 
your  legal  quibbles." 

"Muriel  broke  our  contract,"  insisted  Edward 
doggedly. 

"You  should  have  made  her  keep  it." 

"That's  impossible.  A  man  I  know — a  client 
whose  case  was  sent  to  me  for  an  opinion — ^he 
was  in  the  same  position.  He  tried  to  do  what 
you  say.  His  wife  dehberately — well,  she  pre- 
vented the  child  from  being  born." 

"What  has  come  to  women?"  asked  the  Bishop, 
with  furrowed  brow. 

"They're  only  the  exceptions — so  far,"  said 
Edward.    "Still,  there  are  a  good  few  of  them." 

He  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  rather 
gloomily  out. 

§ii 

"Well,  well,  that  may  be,"  said  the  Bishop 
sharply,  "but  all  this  doesn't  excuse  your  con- 
duct, my  boy." 

"Life's  been  a  different  thing  to  me,  though. 


iTHE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     213 

When  I'm  down  there  with  Margaret  and  the 
children " 

"The  children?  Good  God,  then,  this  woman 
isn't  a — a  light  woman  of  the  ordinary  type?'* 

Edward  laughed,  a  little  harshly. 

"You're  called  an  unconventional  Bishop, 
Pater,  but  you  think  just  the  same  as  the  rest 
of  them;  just  as  I  used  to  think  myself  tool" 

"Tell  me,  then,  tell  me,"  the  Bishop  said. 

"Meg  a  light  woman!  Meg's  the  best  mother 
in  the  world!" 

"Then  all  the  more  shame  to  you  for  not 
giving  her  a  proper  position,"  said  the  Bishop 
hotly. 

"How  could  I  ?"  Edward  asked  in  amazement. 

"How  could  you?  It  was  your  duty  to  find 
a  way." 

"Then  you  think  this  makes  a  difference?" 

"Of  course  it  does — all  the  difference.  In 
Patagonia ' ' 

The  Bishop  suddenly  stopped.  He  recollected 
that  Patagonia  and  Great  Britain  are  a  long  way 
apart.    He  changed  his  tone. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "it  doesn't  excuse  your 
past  conduct,  not  in  the  slightest." 

"But,"  he  added,  "it  ought  to  affect  your  fu- 
ture conduct." 

"What  ought  I  to  do?" 

"What  you  ought  to  have  done  long  ago.  You 
ought  to  have  been  open  and  honest  and  told  the 
whole  story." 

"And  got  a  divorce?" 

"I  suppose  so.    Yes." 


214     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"That  was  impossible,"  returned  Edward 
quietly. 

"It  was  only  made  impossible  by  your  coward- 
ice." 

"My  dear  Pater,  even  if  Muriel  had  consented 
to  sue  for  a  divorce,  which  is  very  unhkely,  and 
even  if  I  had  struck  her  in  the  presence  of  wit- 
nesses, or  technically  deserted  her,  honesty  would 
have  been  fatal." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see.  Collusion,"  the  Bishop  mur- 
mured. 

"If  the  Court  knew  we  both  wanted  rehef, 
relief  would  have  been  refused." 

"You  could  simply  have  left  her.  There  need 
have  been  no  collusion." 

"What  could  she  have  done?  She  has  no 
money?" 

"She  could  have  blamed  no  one  but  herself." 

"I  dare  say.  But  once  I  loved  her.  I  couldn't 
simply  cut  her  adrift." 

"You  could  have  made  her  an  allowance." 

"It*s  doubtful  whether  I  could  have  earned  a 
living  at  all." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  the  Bishop  asked. 

"You  forget  how  highly  the  Eleventh  Com- 
mandment is  respected  in  England." 

"The  Eleventh — ^yes,  yes,  I  seel" 

"Thou  shalt  not  be  found  out  I" 

"But  need  it  have  been  made  public?" 

"Your  idea  was  to  be  open  and  honest,  wasn't 
it?" 

The  Bishop  frowned. 

"The  only  thing  I  see  plain,"  he  said  testily, 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     215 

"is  that  your  duty  was  to  the  mother  of  your 
children." 

"Yes,  I  felt  that." 

"And  your  duty  now  is  to  the  mother  of  your 
children.    Boys  or  girls?" 

"Boys.    Two." 

"And  she's  a  good  mother  to  them?" 

"Absolutely  devoted." 

"Take  me  to  see  them,"  said  the  Bishop.  His 
manner  had  completely  altered. 

"Really?"  Edward  looked  more  cheerful. 
"Then,  Pater,  you  don't  think  it's  so  bad  as  you 
did?" 

"Don't  ask  me,  Edward.    My  mind  is  at  sea." 

"You  admit  there's  something  to  be  said  for 
me?" 

"Much  that  has  always  seemed  simple  has 
grown  complicated." 

The  Bishop  thought  for  a  few  moments.  Then 
he  jerked  out:  "How  old?" 

"Three  and  two.  Such  healthy  little  beg- 
gars." 

The  cloud  deepened  on  the  Bishop's  face. 

"I  must  think — think  and  pray,  my  boy;  and 
pray." 

There  was  another  interval  of  silence.  Then 
Edward  said  simply: 

"Pater,  I'm  glad  you  know." 

"Let's  go  to-day,"  the  Bishop  proposed  im- 
pulsively.   "Now  I" 

"Very  well,  I  could  motor  you  down.  Let's 
go  and  get  the  car." 

Both  rose  and  crossed  the  room.     As  they 


216     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

reached  the  door,  Edward  stopped  and  said 
pleadingly : 

"You'll  be  considerate  with  Meg,  won't  you. 
Pater?" 

"I  hope  I  shall  not  be  wanting  in  considera- 
tion. But  I  must  see  for  myself  what  kind  of 
woman  she  is." 

"Come  along  then,"  said  Edward.  "You  must 
put  on  a  thick  coat." 

§  iii 

Just  at  that  moment  Muriel,  ready  for  her 
drive,  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

Both  men  showed  some  signs  of  constraint. 
She  noticed  nothing,  however. 

"Well,  I'm  ready,  and  it's  time  for  Tony  to 
be  here,"  she  said  gaily.  "When  are  you  lazy 
people  going  to  start?" 

"We're  just  going,"  Edward  answered. 

"Which  way  are  you  going?" 

The  two  men  glanced  at  one  another. 

"We  are  going  to  see  a  friend  of  mine,"  said 
the  Bishop. 

"Couldn't  we  meet  and  all  have  tea  together 
somewhere?"  she  asked. 

But  before  she  could  get  an  answer  the  maid 
came  in. 

"Mr.  Hilford  is  here  in  the  motor,  madam." 

Edward  took  the  Bishop's  arm. 

"We'll  go.     Good-bye,  Muriel." 

And  he  hurried  the  Bishop  out  of  the  room. 

"We  shall  be  back  to  dinner  at  a  quarter  to 
eight,  Phelps.    Or  better  make  it  half -past  seven. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     217 

I'm  going  to  the  theatre.    Tell  Mr.  Hilford  I'll 
be  down  in  a  moment." 

She  went  to  the  glass  and  began  to  put  finish- 
ing touches  to  her  hat  and  veil.  But  just  then 
Tony  came  into  the  room.  He  had  not  waited 
for  her  message. 

"Edward  said  I'd  better  come  up,"  he  re- 
marked apologetically.  "How  jolly  of  you  to  be 
ready.    Where  shall  we  go?" 

"Oh,  bother,"  Muriel  cried.  "I  forgot  to  find 
out  which  way  Edward  and  the  Bishop  were 
going.  They  were  just  telling  me  when  we  were 
interrupted.    I  suppose  they  didn't  say?" 

"No;  but  Edward  asked  whether  that  old 
police  trap  was  still  open  on  the  road  between 
Godalming  and  Portsmouth.  I  shouldn't  won- 
der if  they've  gone  that  way." 

"Wouldn't  you  really?  What  a  wonderful 
head  you've  got,  Tony.  Well,  we'll  lunch  at 
Guildford  and  then  go  that  way  too." 


CHAPTER  XVII 


Margaret  was  ironing.  Ironing  is  a  graceful 
business;  it  showed  off  her  well-rounded  attrac- 
tiveness to  perfection. 

Few  women,  few  men  either,  understand  how 
poor  are  the  chances  of  the  "lady"  to  look  attract- 
ive when  set  against  those  of  the  working  woman. 
The  lady  spends  most  of  her  time  sitting  or  stand- 
ing or  walking;  in  none  of  these  attitudes  does 
she  appear  to  particular  advantage.  Neither 
lawn  tennis  nor  golf  exhibit  her  in  a  charming 
light.  In  the  saddle  she  looks  delightful,  but 
then  how  few  ride !  Whereas  the  working  woman 
is  continually  disposing  herself  into  positions  and 
movements  which  to  seeing  eyes  bring  the  joy 
of  unstudied  harmony  and  natural  grace.  Even 
in  brushing  a  boot  or  cleaning  a  grate  there  is 
very  often  beauty.  In  the  process  of  leisurely 
ironing  no  woman  who  is  decently  built  can  help 
making  a  delightful  impression. 

Watch  Margaret  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up 
over  her  shapely  arms,  soft  hair  coiled  low  at 
the  back  of  her  neck,  deep  bosom  rising  and  fall- 
ing with  the  regularity  of  health.  She  passes 
the  iron  to  and  fro  over  the  linen  white  as  snow, 
she  holds  it  near  her  cheek  to  see  if  it  is  hot 
enough,  she  carries  it  at  arm's-length  into  the 

218 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     219 

kitchen  to  put  it  on  the  gas  stove,  and  brings 
back  another,  held  there  in  reserve,  to  carry  on 
with.  All  these  motions  display  her  figure  to 
the  most  engaging  advantage. 

No  doubt  she  knew  this,  for  she  sang  softly 
and  happily  to  herself  in  sign  of  contentment 
with  her  lot.  , 

The  living-room  of  her  cottage,  where  she  v/ 
worked,  had  a  fresh,  countrified,  open-air  agree- 
ableness.  In  at  the  windows  came  the  scent  of 
early  stock  and  late  wall-flower.  Two  big  loung- 
ing chairs  before  the  fireplace  of  open  brick-work 
showed  that  a  man  had  helped  to  choose  the  furni- 
ture. A  small  book-case  stood  against  one  wall 
and  opposite  on  a  deal  table,  uncovered  by  any 
cloth,  lay  a  number  of  children's  toys. 

Glancing  round,  her  eye  passed  across  these, 
and  she  was  reminded  to  call  out: 

"Eddie  darling,  are  you  and  Peter  all  right?" 

A  small  voice,  shrill  and  eager,  repHed  to  her 
with  a  confident  "Yes,  Mummy." 

"Be  good  boys,  and  don't  dirty  your  pinnies 
too  much." 

The  ironing  and  soft,  happy  singing  were  re- 
sumed. 

A  few  minutes  slipped  by,  then  the  horn  of  a 
motor  car  was  heard  along  the  quiet  road,  bring- 
ing a  note  of  apprehension  into  the  stillness  of 
the  light  afternoon. 

"Eddie,"  Margaret  called  again,  "you  aren't 
in  the  road,  are  you?" 

"No,  Mummy,  in  ver  garden." 

Next  moment  the  horn  sounded  close  by.    The 


220     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREB 

noise  of  a  car  slowing  up  and  stopping  came  to 
Margaret's  hearing.  It  was  followed,  to  her 
surprise,  by  screams  of  delight  from  the  two  little 
boys.  Edward  Tanstead's  voice  made  Margaret 
look  towards  the  door  with  parted  lips  and  shin- 
ing eyes  of  welcome. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  what  a  surprise!"  she  exclaimed, 
as  he  came  in.  "So  you've  been  able  to  come 
after  all." 

"Not  to  stay,  Meg,"  he  made  answer,  kissing 
her,  then  looking  at  her  fondly,  holding  her  face 
between  his  hands.  "Not  to  stay  this  time,  little 
woman,  I'm  sorry  to  say." 

"Didn't  your  godfather  arrive?" 

"Yes,  last  night." 

He  looked  round  and  lowered  his  voice.  "He's 
here  now — outside  with  the  kiddies." 

"Ed — the  Bishop  .  .  .  here?"  said  Margaret, 
aghast. 

"I  told  him,  Meg.  I  simply  had  to.  And  he*s 
been  splendid!" 

"Oh,  but  how  could  you  bring  him?  And  me 
like  this!" 

She  began  to  roll  down  her  sleeves  hurriedly, 
trying  at  the  same  time  to  administer  pats  of  dis- 
cipline to  straying  strands  of  hair. 

"No,  don't,"  said  Edward,  laying  his  hands 
on  hers.  "Let  him  see  you  as  I  did  just  now. 
Please.    Why  not  go  on  ironing?" 

Margaret  took  up  the  iron  doubtfully,  then 
suddenly  put  it  down  again. 

"No,  I  can't  really,"  she  said.  "I  must  be 
decent." 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     ^21 

Edward  went  quickly  to  the  door. 

"Come  in,  Pater,"  he  said.  "Leave  the  kid- 
dies to  their  mud  pies,"  and  as  the  Bishop  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway,  he  went  on  with  a  quiver 
of  nervousness  in  his  voice:  "This  is  Margaret, 
Pater." 

The  Bishop  halted  a  moment  on  the  threshold. 
Then  he  asked  with  grave,  kind  courtesy:  "May 
I  come  in?" 

The  warm  colour  jflowed  over  Margaret's  face 
and  neck. 

"Please  do,"  she  said.  "I  hope  you'll  excuse 
the  untidiness.  If  I  had  known  you  were  com- 
ing " 

"I  like  much  better  to  see  you  busy,"  replied 
the  Bishop  in  the  same  tone  as  before.  "Don't 
stop  if  you've  got  your  ironing  to  finish." 

Margaret  looked  confused,  first  at  the  Bishop, 
then  at  her  husband. 

"Oh  no,  I  couldn't,"  she  began. 

"Yes,  do,  Meg,"  put  in  Edward.  "I 
know  Pater  won't  mind.  He'd  rather  you  went 
on. 

"Well,  then,  if  I  may  just  finish  these,"  said 
Margaret,  still  uneasy.    "I've  nearly  done." 

She  fell  to  ironing  again,  and  for  the  next 
few  minutes  worked  rapidly. 

"You  don't  do  all  your  own  work,  do  you?" 
asked  the  Bishop. 

"She  does  too  much,"  said  Edward.  "I'm 
always  telling  her  so." 

"Oh  no,"  protested  Margaret,  "I  have  a  woman 
to  help  me.    Really  there's  little  for  me  to  do." 


222     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"She  will  insist  on  teaching  the  boys  as  well," 
Edward  complained. 

"I  can't  teach  them  much,"  she  said,  still  bent 
over  her  iron.  "You  see,  I  had  no  great  educa- 
tion myself." 

"Enough  to  make  you  a  useful  woman,  my 
dear,"  answered  the  Bishop;  and  then  added, 
smiling:  "may  I  call  you  'my  dear'?" 

"You're  very  good  to  me,"  said  Margaret,  with 
a  break  in  her  voice,  "and  I  know  I  ought  to  call 
you  'my  lord,'  but  somehow " 

"No,  no,  I  couldn't  have  that.  Edward  calls 
me  Pater.  That  means  Father,  you  know.  Sup- 
pose you  call  me  Pater  too.  They  all  do  in 
Patagonia." 

There  was  a  tear  shining  in  one  of  Margaret^s 
big  brown  eyes  as  she  said  simply  and  earnestly: 
"Thank  you.    You're  very,  very  kind." 

Now  she  folded  up  her  ironing  blanket  and 
cleared  away  the  linen. 

"Well,"  said  Edward,  anxious  to  leave  the 
other  two  alone,  "I  suppose  I  must  go  and  re- 
deem my  promise  to  be  a  lion  for  a  Httle  while. 
Will  you  do  the  honours,  Meg?  We  might  have 
some  tea  presently." 

Meg  nodded  brightly.  Her  self-possession 
had  come  back.  Edward  went  out,  f  eehng  almost 
happy. 

§  ii 

As  Margaret  was  putting  away  the  ironing 
things  on  the  table  by  the  book-case,  the  Bishop 
began  to  feel  the  need  of  some  support  in  the 
task  before  him. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     223 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  smoke?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  please  do,"  said  Margaret.  And  then 
going  up  to  him  and  holding  out  both  her  hands, 
she  exclaimed  with  deep  emotion:  "I  can't  tell 
you  how  I  feel — how  you've  made  me  feel.  I 
never  dreamt  you  would  be  so  kind  and  gentle. 
I  know  it's  for  Edward's  sake,  but  still " 

"Not  altogether  for  Edward's  sake,  my  dear," 
interrupted  the  Bishop. 

"It's  made  me  so  happy,"  she  went  on,  wiping 
the  corners  of  her  eyes.  "And  I've  been  very 
unhappy — since  I  knew  you  were  coming." 

"You  were  afraid?" 

"Yes,  afraid." 

Very  quietly  and  kindly,  without  any  preachi- 
ness,  just  as  if  he  were  speaking  to  a  child,  the 
Bishop  said:  "We  are  always  afraid  when  we  have 
done  wrong,  aren't  we?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  know  we  did  wrong,"  said  Mar- 
garet.    "That  often  makes  me  unhappy  too." 

"You  don't  mind  living  quietly  here?" 

"No.  I  love  the  life.  I  love  having  the  chil- 
dren all  to  myself." 

"You  wouldn't  like  to  change  your  life?" 

Margaret  was  alarmed  in  an  instant. 

"You  don't  want  me  to  change  it,  do  you?"  she 
asked,  full  of  apprehension. 

"No,  no,  no,"  was  the  Bishop's  soothing  reply. 

"Of  course,"  said  Margaret,  "it  was  a  terrible 
.  .  .  shock  to  you?" 

"It  was  a  great  .  .  .  surprise." 

"You  didn't  know  anything  about  Edward  and 
...  his  wife?'* 


224    THE  FRUIT  OP  THE  TREE 

"I  never  dreamed  of  such  a  state  of  things." 

"Do  you  think  it  makes  .  .  .  this  ..  .  .  any 
less  wrong?"  she  asked  timidly. 

"Two  wrongs  can  never  make  a  right,  my 
child,"  said  the  Bishop  sadly.  "But  I  haven't 
been  able  to  think  clearly  yet,"  he  added. 

"There  are  times  when  I  can't  believe  it's 
true,"  she  murmured. 

"You  never  imagined  such  a  thing  happening?" 

"Never,"  said  Margaret,  with  a  decisive 
emphasis. 

"I  suppose  you  expected  to  marry?" 

"I  saw  so  few  people." 

"Did  you  want  to  be  married — I  don't  mean  to 
anybody  in  particular?" 

"I  envied  women  who  had  children,"  she  re- 
plied. 

"You  never  thought  of  marriage  without  chil- 
dren?" 

"No,  never.  I  just  wanted  children  for  my- 
self. I  couldn't  understand  any  woman  not  want- 
ing them." 

"Yet  you  had  no  hope  of  marrying?" 

"It  didn't  seem  at  all  likely." 

"And  now,  of  course,  you  consider  yourself 
married  to  Edward?" 

"Oh,  if  only  we  could  have  been  married," 
said  Margaret,  and  gave  signs  of  breaking  down. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know  what  you  must  feel,"  the 
Bishop  answered  sympathetically,  hoping  to  stave 
off  the  crisis.  "But  you  know  he  thinks  of  you 
as  his  wife?" 

"Yes;  but  that  isn't  the  same  thing." 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     225 

"Not  quite — but  still — ^you  always  think  of  him 
as  your  husband?" 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  Margaret,  wiping  her 
eyes. 

"You  couldn't  imagine  yourself  parting  from 
him?"  the  Bishop  asked.  Muriel's  assurance  that 
she  could  get  on  quite  well  without  Edward  ran- 
kled in  his  mind. 

"Parting  from  him  and  the  children?  But  you 
don't  want  us  to  part?"  she  asked,  wide-eyed 
and  terror-stricken  at  the  thought. 

"No,  no,  my  child  I" 

"His  ...  his  wife  hasn't  found  out  any- 
thing?" 

"Nothing  whatever." 

"I'm  always  so  afraid  she  may,"  said  Margaret, 
wiping  her  eyes  again.  "What  would  she  do,  do 
you  think?" 

"Well,  upon  my  soul,"  said  the  Bishop,  "she 
seems  to  be  such  an  unusual  woman  that  I  can't 
guess  what  she  would  do." 

"She  doesn't  care  for  him  in  the  least,  I  sup- 
pose?" asked  Margaret,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Not  as  a  wife,  certainly." 

"Don't  you  think  she  ever  did?'* 

"That  is  what  Edward  tells  me." 

"I  can't  understand  it." 

There  was  a  pause  in  the  conversation. 

"And  Edward?"  she  went  on  interrogatively. 

"Eh?" 

"Has  he  quite  given  up  caring?" 

"Surely  he  has  proved  that,'  said  the  Bishop, 
in  some  astonishment. 


226     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"Yes,  yes,"  Margaret  answered,  "but,"  she 
went  on  hurriedly,  "don't  you  see,  I've  never  had 
anyone  to  tell  me  anything  about  her.  I  can't 
help  wondering  ...  and  imagining  .  .  .  aU 
sorts  of  things.  They  are  quite  friends,  aren't 
they?" 

"So  far  as  I  have  seen,"  the  Bishop  replied, 
still  rather  perplexed  by  the  turn  the  conversa- 
tion had  taken.  "They  have  interests  in 
common.  And  she  helps  him  with  some  of  his 
work." 

"Ah  I  so  she's  useful  to  him." 

"But  you  mustn't  think  for  a  moment  that 
Edward  could  hesitate  between  you." 

"No,  no,  I  won't.  Tell  me  something  more 
about  her.  I  always  think  of  her  as  hard  and 
ugly  and  old-looking.  Oh!  I  hate  her,"  cried 
Margaret,  breaking  down  again.  "I  wish  she 
were  dead." 

"Come,  come,  my  child,  control  yourself,"  the 
Bishop  commanded,  with  a  new  tone  of  authority 
in  his  voice. 

"Yes,  yes;  I  wiU,  I  wiU." 

She  wiped  her  eyes  again. 

"And  you  won't  tell  him  it's  wrong  to  come 
here?" 

"We  must  try  to  make  it  right  for  him  to 
come,"  the  Bishop  answered  gravely. 

"I  see  him  so  little  as  it  is." 

"You  feel  you  ought  to  be  together  always?" 

"I'm  not  unhappy.  I  get  on  well  enough. 
But  it  seems  so  awful,  when  I  sit  down  and  think 
about  it,  for  me  not  to  be  married  to  Edward." 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     227 

"Didn't  you  think  it  all  out  before  you  decided 
to  come  here?" 

"I  thought  and  thought  and  thought  till  my 
mind  seemed  all  dazed." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  Bishop,  with  brows  drawn 
down,  yet  encouraging  her  to  go  on. 

"I  knew  all  the  time  what  I  ought  to  say.  But 
it  was  so  hard.  I  didn't  mind  working;  it  was 
the  want  of  anything  to  look  forward  to  that 
was  so  dreadful.  I  knew  I  should  never  get 
another  chance  to  be  happy." 

"No,  no;  you  can't  have  known  that,"  the 
Bishop  protested. 

"Yes,"  affirmed  Margaret,  with  conviction,  "I 
felt  sure.  It  was  terrible  to  look  ahead  and  see 
all  the  dreary  years  waiting  for  me,  and  feel 
I  was  going  to  miss  everything." 

"Everything?" 

"Yes;  children  were  everything  to  me  then. 
And  they  are  now,  bless  them,"  she  added,  with 
another  dab  at  her  eyes.  For  a  paoment  there 
fell  a  silence  between  them. 


'"Well,  well,"  said  the  Bishop  briskly,  fearing 
another  flow  of  tears,  "that's  all  past.  Now  we've 
got  to  consider  the  future." 

"I  feel  afraid  when  you  say  that,"  Margaret 
murmured.  This  sudden  interruption  of  her 
quiet,  happy  hfe  filled  her  with  apprehension. 

"Margaret,  Edward  owes  a  duty  to  you  and 


528    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

to  his  children,"  the  Bishop  asserted,  with  grave 
emphasis. 

"Oh,  he  does  his  duty,  Father,  so  far  as  he 
can.*' 

"He  can  do  much  more  than  he  does." 

"How?"  asked  Margaret  doubtfully. 

"He  can  acknowledge  you  as  his  wife." 

"But  surely  that  would  mean "  began  Mar- 
garet in  amazement  at  this  unexpected  sugges- 
tion. 

"No  matter  what  it  means.  He  ought  to  do 
it." 

"You  think  I'm  more  truly  his  wife  than — the 
other?" 

"You  are  his  wife  in  the  eyes  of  God,  Mar- 
garet." 

"You  really  think  that?" 

"My  child,  I  am  certain  of  it." 

"But,"  said  Margaret,  with  hesitation,  "they 
were  .  .  .  married  in  church,  weren't  they?" 

"When  the  priest  says  'Those  whom  God  hath 
joined  together' " 

"Yes;  that's  what  I  was  thinking  of." 

"Well,  he  cannot  be  sure  whether  God  has 
joined  them." 

"Then  why  does  he  say  it?"  Margaret  asked, 
in  some  bewilderment. 

"He  means  '7/  God  has  joined  them  together, 
no  man  can  put  them  asunder.'  " 
1  see. 

"We  cannot  presume  to  read  the  mind  of  the 
Almighty  until  He  has  declared  it,"  said  the 
Bishop  solemnly. 


jTHE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     229 

"Then,"  inquired  Margaret,  still  doubtfully 
"if  two  people  don't  get  on  well,  you  think  God 
can't  have  joined  them?" 

"It  is  obvious,  my  child — obvious!" 

"And  you  don't  think  divorce  is  wrong?" 

"Marriage,"  explained  the  Bishop  very  seri- 
ously, "is  a  sacred  contract.  But  its  sacredness 
does  not  make  it  indissoluble.  Like  any  other 
contract,  it  may  be  dissolved  by  the  refusal  of 
either  party  to  abide  by  its  obligations." 

Margaret  listened  with  wide-open  eyes. 

"I  see,"  she  said  reflectively. 

"If  you  enter  into  a  business  contract,"  the 
Bishop  went  on,  "and  the  other  party  breaks 
it,  you  can  go  before  a  judge  and  get  it  dissolved. 
Do  you  think  the  Judge  of  all  men  is  less  just 
than  His  creatures  and  their  laws?" 

Margaret  drew  in  her  breath  at  this  unexpected 
view  of  the  case. 

"So  you  have  advised  Edward ?"  she  said. 

"To  take  the  only  straightforward  course." 

"But  what  about  his  position?" 

"His  position,"  returned  the  Bishop,  "ought 
not  to  prevent  his  doing  what  is  right.  Besides," 
he  added,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  "the  mat- 
ter might  very  possibly  be  kept  quiet." 

"My  head's  in  a  whirl,"  Margaret  said. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


At  that  moment  Edward  came  in,  brushing  his 
clothes  down  with  his  hands  after  a  romp. 

"Lions  must  lead  very  exhausting  lives,"  he 
said,  with  rueful  humour. 

Margaret  went  over  to  him. 

"Dear,  you  haven't  tired  yourself,  have  you?" 

"No,  little  woman.    I  enjoyed  it." 

"Edward,  I've  told  Margaret  what  I  told  you,'* 
the  Bishop  said. 

"What's  that.  Pater?" 

"That  she  is  your  wife  in  the  sight  of  Heaven." 

"Thank  you  for  that,"  Edward  answered 
quietly,  and  put  his  arm  round  Margaret's 
shoulder. 

"And  that  she  ought  to  be  yoiu*  wife  in  the 
sight  of  men." 

"I  am  in  Margaret's  hands,"  said  Edward. 
He  sincerely  wanted  to  do  the  right  thing,  but 
he  was  under  no  illusions  as  to  the  difficulty  of 
doing  it. 

"I  only  want  what  is  best  for  the  children,  and 
for  you,  Edward,"  Margaret  said,  still  sheltering 
inside  his  arm. 

"What  is  right  must  be  best  for  him,"  jerked 

the  Bishop,  a  little  impatiently.    "Let  me  leave 

230 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     231 

you  for  a  few  moments  to  talk  to  one  another." 

He  made  for  the  door. 

"What  will  you  do,  Pater?"  asked  Edward, 

following  him. 

"I  will  go  and  talk  to  the  little  boys." 

They  both  stood  until  the  Bishop  had  crossed 

the  threshold.     Then  Margaret  put  out  both 

hands  to  Edward. 

"Dear,  I'm  so  bewildered,"  she  said. 

"How's  that,  little  woman?" 

"It's  so  different  from  what  I  expected." 

"The  way  Pater  takes  it,  you  mean?" 

"Yes.      He   didn't   seem   like   a   clergyman 

at  all." 

"What's  he  been  saying?" 

"Oh,  talking  quite  sensibly." 

"Give  me  some  idea." 

"Well,  he  was  as  kind  as  possible." 

"Yes;  I  knew  he'd  be  that,"  Edward  told  her, 

"to  you,  at  any  rate." 

"Wasn't  he  kind  to  you,  dear?"  Margaret 

asked. 

"Oh,  not  unkind  exactly.    It  was  the  children 

brought  him  round." 

"But  before  you  told  him  about  them?" 
"Well,  at  first  he  wouldn't  admit  any  excuse 

at  all." 

"You  made  him  understand  about  .  .  .  her?" 
"Yes,  he  saw  she  hadn't  kept  her  .  .  .  her  part 

of  the  bargain." 

"He  couldn't  dispute  that." 
"No;  but  he  didn't  think  it  made  any  differ- 
ence," 


232     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"What?"  said  Margaret  amazed.  "Why,  he 
told  me  it  made  all  the  difference." 

"Are  you  sure?"  asked  Edward,  equally  aston- 
ished. 

"Yes,  quite!  He  said,"  Margaret  repeated  it 
carefully  as  if  it  were  a  lesson  she  had  learnt, 
"that  if  one  person  breaks  a  contract " 

"The  other  isn't  bound  by  it,"  put  in  Edward, 
taking  her  up.    "Did  he  really  say  that?" 

"He  did  certainly.  He  said  God  couldn't  be 
less  just  than  men." 

Edward  laughed. 

"Ed,  what  must  we  do?" 

"To  tell  the  truth,  little  woman,  I  don't  know 
what  to  say." 

All  sorts  of  fears  and  doubts  flowed  into  Mar- 
garet's mind. 

"Ed,'*  she  said  hurriedly,  "I'm  not  a  clever 
woman.  You  might  get  tired  of  being  with  me 
always.    You  might  miss  .  .  .  her." 

"Come,  don't  be  foolish,  Meg,"  Edward  urged, 
frowning. 

"Well,  but  she  is  clever.  You've  said  so.  And 
she  helps  you  with  your  work.  Yes;  I  know, 
you  see.  She  can  talk  to  you  about  all  sorts  of 
things  I  can't." 

"You  know  I'm  always  perfectly  happy  with 
you,"  Edward  said,  a  shade  of  reproach  tinging 
his  impatience. 

"Yes;  but  you  are  with  me  so  little.  Things 
might  be  different  if  it  was  all  the  time.  Be- 
sides, you  might  feel  that  I  had  injured  your 
career.    You  might  leave  off  loving  me," 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     233 

"I  could  never  do  that,  little  woman." 

"Ah,  you  don't  know." 

"Yes,  I  do,"  he  said  tenderly,  his  annoyance 
gone,  as  he  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  her. 
"There  are  the  kiddies  too.  I  ought  to  be  look- 
ing after  them." 

Margaret  drew  away  from  him,  struck  by  an 
unpleasant  thought. 

"H'm.  Perhaps  we  shouldn't  agree  about 
bringing  them  up,"  she  said  reflectively. 

"Of  course  we  should  agree.  We  haven't  dis- 
agreed yet." 

"No;  but  then  I've  had  them  all  to  myself." 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  Meg,  there  is  one  thing,  quite 
a  little  thing,  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about.  You 
must  get  them  out  of  the  habit  of  patting  strange 
dogs.  One  came  along  just  now,  and  they  both 
ran  to  it.    It  isn't  safe." 

"Why  not?    I've  taught  them  to." 

"Well,  you've  taught  them  to  do  a  very  dan- 
gerous thing." 

"I  don't  agree  a  bit,  Ed.  That's  the  way  I 
was  brought  up,  to  be  friends  with  all  animals." 

"All  very  well  in  theory.  But  strange  dogs 
sometimes  bite." 

"Oh  no,  they  never  bite  children.  They  only 
bite  people  who're  afraid  of  them  or  hurt  them.'* 

"Well,  I  call  it  a  dangerous  habit.  I  want 
you  to  break  them  of  it.  I  say,  I  suppose  there 
isn't  a  school  anywhere  near  they  could  go  to 
...  a  kindergarten,  Montessori  business,  that 
sort  of  thing?" 

"Oh,  not  yet,  Ed.     They're  far  too  young." 


234    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"They'll  soon  be  older.  They  must  go  to 
school  some  day.  You'll  have  to  be  nearer  to 
town  then." 

Such  talk  as  this,  however  casual,  always  made 
Margaret  feel  hard  inside.  She  resented  it.  She 
felt  that  the  little  boys  were  he?'Sj  that  she  had 
the  right  to  resist  any  interference  in  the  manner 
of  their  bringing-up.  She  foresaw  that  Edward 
would  take  this  tone  more  and  more  often  as  the 
boys  grew  older,  and  she  told  herself  that  she 
would  have  to  stand  up  for  her  right.  She  had  no 
doubt  about  defending  it  successfully;  she  knew 
that  Edward's  was  a  pliable  character,  that  he 
would  always  take  the  line  of  least  resistance. 
Muriel  did  not  know  this.  She  imagined  that 
Edward  had  shown  his  resolute  mind  by  continu- 
ing to  woo  her  after  she  had  refused  him,  whereas 
he  was  really  following  an  inclination  that  he 
could  not  withstand.  Margaret  had  not  Muriel's 
intellect,  but  she  had  a  far  clearer  insight  into  the 
nature  of  men.  She  had  no  doubt,  therefore, 
of  winning  when  it  came  to  a  tussle  with  Edward, 
but  she  shrank  from  it  nevertheless.  So  she  said 
no  more  now,  but  went  into  the  kitchen,  murmur- 
ing that  she  must  hiury  up  tea. 


Edward  blew  a  kiss  after  her,  then  went  over 
to  the  mantelpiece,  smoothed  his  hair  at  the  glass 
and  took  a  cigarette  from  a  box  on  the  shelf.  He 
lit  it  and  went  to  the  door. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     235 

"Hallo,  Pater,"  he  called,  "don't  let  them 
worry  you.    Come  in  and  have  some  tea." 

Then  he  turned  back  into  the  room,  and  crossed 
to  look  at  the  bookcase.  He  had  just  taken  a 
book  out  when  the  Bishop  came  in. 

"These  little  boys  seem  remarkably  well 
brought  up,  Edward,"  he  said.  "Margaret's  an 
exceptional  woman." 

"She  thinks  you're  an  exceptional  bishop, 
Pater,"  returned  Edward,  with  a  short  laugh. 

"I  do  try  to  think  things  clearly,  my  boy," 
the  Bishop  assented. 

"That's  what  makes  you  an  exception,"  was 
Edward's  dry  comment. 

"Well,  now,"  asked  the  Bishop,  "what  was  the 
result  of  your  talk?" 

"We  didn't  come  to  any  definite  conclusion." 

"You  admit,  don't  you,  that  I  am  right?" 

"Oh  yes,  quite  right — theoretically." 

"Then  I  can't  see  why  you  hesitate." 

"That's  because  you  don't  realise  my  dijficul- 
ties." 

"What  is  there  at  stake?" 

"My  position  at  the  Bar.    My  living." 

"Is  your  position  worth  more  than  a  clear  con- 
science?" 

"You're  so  impulsive.  Pater,"  Edward  pro- 
tested. "It's  all  very  well  for  clergymen  to  talk 
like  that.  They're  paid  for  taking  the  right 
course." 

"I  don't  follow  you,"  the  Bishop  said. 

"Well,  if  they  don't,  they  lose  their  jobs.  But 
suppose  a  man  is  going  to  lose  his  job  because 


236     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

he  does  what  he  believes  to  be  right,  that's  quite 
a  different  case.  Parsons  don't  judge  fairly. 
I  must  think  the  whole  thing  over." 

"There's  only  one  conclusion  you  can  come 
to." 

"You  leave  Muriel  out  of  consideration,"  said 
Edward,  rather  ruefully,  flicking  an  end  off  his 
cigarette,  as  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  table. 

"She  doesn't  deserve  any  consideration." 

"And  yet  in  a  way  we've  got  on  very  well." 

"You  can't  weigh  her  claims  against  Mar- 
garet's." 

"No,  no;  I  don't.    But  stiU " 

"God  bless  my  soul,"  exclaimed  the  Bishop. 
He  was  at  the  window.  A  motor  car  had  just 
flashed  by. 

Edward  turned  his  head  sharply. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  over  his  shoulder. 

"I  fancied  I  saw  your  wife's  face  in  a  motor 
carl" 

"What,  Muriel's?"  Edward  said,  quickly  cross- 
ing the  room. 

"Yes.  It  rushed  past,  but  I  recognised  her 
distinctly." 

"Has  it  got  right  away?'* 

Edward  was  at  the  window,  peering  out  down 
the  road.    Just  then  a  motor  car  horn  was  heard. 

"There  they  are,"  he  said. 

Next  moment  the  horn  sounded  nearer. 

"And  coming  back,  by  Jove!" 

"Surely  not  coming  here,"  the  Bishop  said. 

"No  .  .  .  unless Good  Lord,  we're  done! 

They  must  have  seen  our  car!" 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     237 

Now  the  horn  sounded  again  quite  close. 
"Margaret  is  a  friend  of  minef  said  the  Bishop 
hurriedly.     "You  understand?     Tell  her.     I'll 
wait  and  see  what  happens." 

"You  are  a  brick,  Pater,"  Edward  threw  at 
him,  as  he  went  quickly  into  the  kitchen.     The 
Bishop  walked  leisurely  over  to  the  door.     In 
a  moment  Muriel's  voice  and  the  noise  of  the 
motor  stopping  could  be  heard. 
Muriel  saw  the  Bishop  at  once. 
"Well,  Bishop,"  she  began,  "you  didn't  expect 
to  see  us.    Now,  Tony,  are  you  trying  to  knock 
the  fence  down?    Shut  off  steam  I" 
The  noise  of  the  motor  stopped. 
"Are    we    interrupting    business?"    Muriel 
asked. 

"No!  I  am  paying  a  call." 
"So  a  friend  of  yours  lives  in  this  idyllic  cot- 
tage," said  Muriel,  coming  in  at  the  door.    "And 
are  those  little  objects  outside  your  friends?" 
"The  children?    Yes." 

"Look  here.     Shall  Tony  and  I  go  on?    Are 
we  in  the  way?" 

"Oh  no,"  said  the  Bishop  ungraciously  enough. 
"Do  you  think  you  could  persuade  your  friend 
to  invite  us  in  to  tea.    I'm  dying  for  a  cup." 
"Yes,  I  think  so.    Where  is  Mr.  Hilford?" 
"Making  a  pig  of  himself  with  oil  and  stuff." 
Muriel  was  in  exceedingly  good  spirits. 
"Come  along,"  she  called  to  Tony  from  the 
door. 

"Here  she  comes,"  whispered  Muriel.    *^Will 
you  introduce  me?" 


238     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

From  the  kitchen  Margaret  came  in,  carrying 
the  tea-tray.  Edward  followed.  He  nodded  to 
Muriel  and  Tony. 

"Mrs. — er — Seymour,"  the  Bishop  said.  "Mr. 
Tanstead's  wife  and  a  friend  have  just  come. 
They  recognised  our  car  and  came  back  to  see 
if  he  was  here.  Let  me  introduce  Mrs.  Tanstead 
and  Mr.  Hilford  to  you.'* 

"I  feel  ashamed  to  take  you  by  stonn 
like  this,"  Muriel  apologised.  "The  tempta- 
tion to  stop  at  such  a  charming  spot  was  too 
great.  I  hope  you  won't  think  me  dreadfully 
rude.'* 

"Of  course  not,"  Margaret  replied  nervously. 
"You'll  have  some  tea,  won't  you?" 

"It's  very  kind  of  you.  I  do  want  a  cup  of 
tea  very  badly.  But  are  you  sure  we  aren't  a 
nuisance?" 

"Please  don't  say  that.  Tea's  quite  ready. 
I'll  fetch  some  more  cups." 

Margaret  put  down  the  tea-tray  on  the  table, 
but  did  not  take  her  hands  off  it. 

"Shall  I  fetch  them?  asked  Edward,  and  then 
recollected  himself,  "that  is,  if — if  I  could  find 
them,"  he  added. 

"No,  thank  you,"  Margaret  replied,  moving 
towards  the  kitchen  again.  As  she  turned  she 
looked  at  Muriel,  astonished.  Edward's  wife 
was  not  in  the  least  like  the  woman  she  had 
imagined. 

"I'm  so  sorry  to  give  you  trouble,"  said  Muriel 
graciously. 

"It's  no  trouble,"  Margaret  murmured,  as  she 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     239 

went  into  the  kitchen,  wishing  she  could  walk 
straight  out  of  the  house  and  hide. 

"I  like  your  friend,"  Muriel  said  softly  to  the 
Bishop.    "Is  she  a  widow?" 

"Y-yes." 

Margaret  came  back  with  more  cups,  which 
she  added  to  the  other  tea-things  on  the  tray. 

"Now  it's  ready,"  she  proclaimed,  a  trifle 
awkwardly. 

There  was  a  general  stir. 

"Are  you  fond  of  the  country,  Mrs.  Seymour?" 
Muriel  inquired,  when  they  were  all  settled. 

Margaret,  poiu-ing  out  tea,  did  not  look  up. 

"Oh  yes,  I  am;  very  fond,"  she  said, 

"You  prefer  it  to  living  in  town?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  do." 

"The  worst  of  the  country,"  persisted  Muriel, 
"is  that  everybody  knows  all  about  one." 

Edward  hastily  passed  her  a  cup  of  tea  and 
then  the  sugar  bowl. 

"There  isn't  any  sugar  in,"  he  said.  "Help 
yourself." 

"Edward  always  knows  how  I  like  my  tea," 
Muriel  informed  the  company.  "He  reaUy  is 
a  model.  I  never  remember  whether  he  takes 
sugar  or  not.  Don't  you  find  it  hard  to  remem- 
ber, Mrs.  Sejnnour?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  Margaret  said,  with  a 
startled  air. 

"Do  you  always  remember  whether  your  ,  .  , 
whether  people  take  sugar  or  not?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  think  I  do." 

Then  she  added,  in  a  low  but  audible  voice,  to 


240    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

Edward:  "Do  you  take  sugar  and  milk,  Mr. 
Tanstead?" 

"Only  milk,  thank  you,"  he  answered  gravely. 

For  some  moments  the  conversation  flagged. 


'  e  ••• 

S  m 

The  sunshine  was  warm  on  the  cottage  and 
made  a  pleasant  chequer-pattern  on  the  floor  of 
the  little  room.  The  bees  droned  busily  in  the 
gay  little  garden.  The  scent  of  jasmine  over  the 
porch  sweetened  the  afternoon  air.  Muriel  found 
it  all  very  soothing.  She  felt  that  the  weather 
was  for  once  behaving  towards  her  as  she  desired 
it  should.  She  would  have  been  surprised  to 
know  that  both  the  Bishop  and  Edward  were 
wishing  it  had  poured  with  rain. 

"Discovered  any  fresh  signs  of  degeneration 
since  this  morning?"  she  inquired  of  the  Bishop 
with  an  air  of  charming  mock  seriousness. 

"No,  no,  no!"  said  the  Bishop  irritably. 

"The  Bishop  thinks,"  remarked  Muriel,  ad- 
dressing herself  chiefly  to  Margaret,  "that  we 
have  got  terribly  immoral  since  he  has  been  away. 
I  dare  say  he  has  told  you." 

"No,"  Margaret  replied  faintly,  looking  into 
her  teacup. 

"He  does  not  at  all  like  our  modem  views — 
about  marriage,  for  example." 

"Shall  I  get  you  some  more  tea,  Muriel?" 
asked  Edward. 

"I'm  not  quite  ready  yet." 


iTHE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     241 

"What  is  the  modern  view  about  marriage?" 
asked  Tony.    "Blessed  if  I  know." 

"You're  centuries  behind  the  times,"  said 
Muriel.    "Haven't  you  ever " 

"Excuse  me,"  the  Bishop  interrupted  fever- 
ishly. "Will  you  give  Mrs.  Seymour  something 
to  eat,  Edward?    She  is  having  no  tea  herself." 

"I'm  not  hungry,  thank  you,"  Margaret  an- 
swered. "Shall  I  give  you  some  more  tea?"  she 
asked  Tony. 

"Thanks  very  much."    He  passed  up  his  cup. 

"But  about  marriage  now,"  he  went  on,  while 
he  waited,  "what  is  the  modern  view?  Do  you 
know,  Mrs.  Seymour?" 

"No,  I  don't  know,"  Margaret  replied.  "But 
I  see  so  few  people  down  here." 

"I  judge  from  the  newspapers,"  said  the 
Bishop,  trailing  another  red  herring  across  the 
scent  of  the  undesirable  theme,  "that  nowadays 
there  is  a  fresh  'modern  view'  of  everything  about 
once  a  week." 

"The  modern  view  of  marriage  has  been  incu- 
bating much  longer  than  that,"  Muriel  said. 

"Well,  but  what  is  it?"  persisted  Tony. 

"Tell  you  some  other  time,"  Muriel  answered, 
with  a  glance  at  Margaret.  "We  mustn't  bore 
Mrs.  Seymour." 

"Oh,  please  go  on,"  urged  Margaret.  "I  am 
very  much  interested." 

The  Bishop  thought  it  was  time  for  him  to  in- 
tervene again. 

"I  really  do  not  think  the  subject  is  suitable 
for  general  discussion,"  he  said. 


242     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"Come,  Bishop,  you  promised  not  to  be  Early 
Victorian,"  Muriel  reminded  him. 

"You  can't  expect  the  Bishop  to — ^to  talk  so 
freely  as  you  do,"  interposed  Edward.  "The 
Church  naturally  takes  a  strong  view  about  mar- 
riage." 

"It*s  modified  its  view  a  good  deal  since — 
weU,  since  the  Middle  Ages,"  Muriel  persisted. 

"Naturally,"  was  the  Bishop's  dry  com- 
ment. 

"It  wouldn't  let  a  man  have  two  wives,  or  any- 
thing hke  that,"  said  Tony,  with  a  heavy  attempt 
at  humour. 

"Not  two  at  a  time,"  said  Muriel. 

"No,  I  should  think  not,  eh,  Mrs.  Seymour?" 

"I  suppose  Mrs.  Tanstead  means,"  Margaret 
said  slowly,  "that  the  Church  has  allowed  people 
to — divorce  one  another." 

"The  Church  couldn't  stop  it,"  Muriel  cor- 
rected, "and  that  alters  the  whole  situation." 

"And  are  you  in  favour,"  Margaret  asked 
Muriel,  "of  marriage  being  easily — easily  put  an 
end  to?" 

"I  think  it's  stupid  and  cruel  to  keep  people 
tied  together  against  their  wills." 

"Only  common  sense,"  chimed  in  Tony,  "to 
let  people  off  when  they  can't  get  on.  Off  and 
on.     See?" 

He  appealed  to  Edward,  who  ignored  him. 

"Of  course,"  said  Muriel  reflectively,  "the  old 
Greek  arrangement  was  probably  the  best  of 
all." 

"What  was  that?"  Margaret  asked  her. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     243 

Edward  and  the  Bishop  were  on  more  painful 
thorns  every  moment. 

"Hadn't  we  better  go  back  to  the  Flood?"  the 
former  broke  in. 

"The  Almighty  ordained  the  holy  state  of  mat- 
rimony before  that,  my  boy,"  the  Bishop  said 
grimly. 

"Mayn't  I  hear  about  the  Greek  plan?"  asked 
Margaret. 

"I  was  really  thinking  of  Pericles  and  Aspa- 
sia." 

"I'm  afraid  I  never  heard  of  them,"  confessed 
Margaret. 

"I'm  not  so  very  well  up  in  them  myself," 
Muriel  admitted.  "Give  us  some  information, 
please,  Edward." 

"Pericles  was  a  Greek  statesman,"  said  Ed- 
ward shortly. 

"Right  O!  I  remember,"  Tony  broke  in. 
"And  Aspasia  was  the  lady  who  ought  to  have 
been  Mrs.  Pericles,  but  wasn't." 

"There  was  a  Mrs.  Pericles  too,"  Muriel  said; 
"a  nice,  domesticated  person,  just  your  sort. 
Bishop,  who  stayed  at  home  all  day  and  looked 
after  the  servants  and  the  children." 

"And  Aspasia,  what  was  she  like?"  inquired 
Margaret,  now  genuinely  interested. 

"Clever  and  beautiful.  She  shared  aU  Peri- 
cles' intellectual  interests." 

"His  wife  couldn't  do  that,  I  suppose?" 

"Apparently  not,"  Muriel  agreed. 

"Mended  his  socks,  though,"  said  Tony,  "and 
made  him  jolly  comfortable." 


244    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"He  was  fond  of  them  both,  then?"  queried 
Margaret — "only  in  different  ways." 

"There  is  only  one  way  in  which  a  good  man 
can  love  a  woman,"  the  Bishop  observed  heavily. 

"Yes;  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"I  see,"  said  Margaret. 

"She  amused  him." 

"And  helped  him  with  his  work?" 

"What  a  steam-rollerish  remark!"  came  from 
Muriel. 

"And  we  must  recollect,  too,"  the  Bishop  con- 
tinued, "that  Pericles  lived  before  the  Christian 
era." 

"But  I  suppose,"  said  Margaret  slowly,  "that 
men  are  much  the  same  now  as  they  were  then?" 

"Yes,  of  course,"  Muriel  assured  her.  "And 
women  too.  I  am  sure  I  ought  to  have  been 
Edward's  Aspasia." 

"Muriel,  really "  protested  Edward. 

"Mrs.  Tanstead,  I  beg  of  you "  the  Bishop 

boomed. 

"Sorry,  Bishop,"  Muriel  apologised.  "But 
think  how  nice  it  would  be  for  Edward  to  have 
a  nice  domesticated  wife  and  family  in  one  street, 
and  me  in  another  to  come  and  talk  to  when  he 
felt  inclined." 

"We  really  must  think  about  starting,"  Ed- 
ward announced  briskly,  seizing  an  opportunity 
to  put  an  end  to  a  painful  ordeal. 

Muriel  got  up  too. 

"Yes  it's  quite  time.  I've  told  Tony  he  can 
take  me  to  the  theatre,  Edward,  so  that  you  and 
the  Bishop  can  have  a  long  talk.    By  the  way. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     245 

I  wonder  if  Mrs.  Seymour  would  let  me  put  my 
hat  straight?"  she  inquired. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Margaret.  "Will  you  come 
upstairs?" 

"Thanks  so  much.  You  can  be  getting  ready, 
Tony." 

"This  is  the  way,"  Margaret  told  her,  cross- 
ing to  the  door.    Muriel  followed  her  out. 


8  IV 

Through  the  other  door  into  the  garden  the 
three  men  went.  As  soon  as  they  were  outside 
they  saw  the  children,  who  ran  towards  them, 
their  childish  voices  ringing  out  clear  in  the  cool 
air  of  late  afternoon.  There  was  a  few  moments* 
confused  conversation,  then  Edward  began  to 
look  over  his  engine. 

"Got  a  screw-driver,  Tony?"  he  asked.  "Never 
mind,  though,  I'll  get  one." 

And  forgetting  the  necessity  for  caution,  for- 
getting that  he  was  supposed  to  be  a  stranger  to 
the  cottage,  he  ran  indoors. 

He  pulled  open  a  drawer,  took  a  screw-driver 
out,  then  crossed  to  the  mantelpiece  and  put  a 
box  of  matches  in  his  pocket,  before  turning  back 
to  the  door,  where  he  encountered  Tony  stand- 
ing on  the  threshold  with  a  face  of  horrified 
amazement. 

"I  say,  old  man,"  Tony  blurted  out,  "this  is  a 
bit  too  thick!" 

"What  is?    What's  the  matter?" 

"What  did  that  kid  call  you?" 


246    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

Edward  turned  away  to  the  mantelpiece.  He 
had  been  afraid  for  a  moment  that  the  children 
might  betray  him.  But  he  thought  all  had  passed 
off  well. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied  carelessly.  "What?'* 

"He  called  you  *Daddy.'  " 

*'0h,  children  often  make  mistakes  of  that 
kind,"  Edward  said  lightly. 

"If  you  can  tell  me  it  was  a  mistake,"  splut- 
tered Tony,  "look  me  in  the  face  and  say  so. 
You'll  give  me  back  my  faith  in — in — ^well,  you 
know  what  I  mean." 

Edward  was  watching  him  in  the  looking-glass 
over  the  mantel. 

"Don't  be  an  ass,  Tony.  Of  course  it's  a  mis- 
take," he  jerked  out. 

"But  it's  perfectly  awful,"  Tony  continued. 
"I  see  it  all  now." 

"See  what?"  asked  Edward,  turning  sharply. 

"What  you're  doing  here?" 

"That  doesn't  require  any  great  wisdom." 

"I  may  be  a  fool,  my  dear  old  chap,  but  I 
can't  help  seeing  a  thing  when  it's  right  under 
my  nose.  That  kid  called  you  'Daddy.'  And 
how  did  you  know  there  was  a  screw-driver  in 
the  drawer?  And  look  here,"  he  went  on,  more 
excitedly  still,  pointing  through  the  door  to  a 
picture  he  had  just  noticed  in  the  kitchen,  "what's 
that  picture  I  gave  you  as  a  wedding  present 
doing  here?" 

Edward  laughed  harshly. 

"It's  better  there  than  in  the  box-room,  where 
Muriel  put  it,"  he  rapped  out.    And  then  added 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     247 

defiantly:  "I  gave  it  to  Mrs.  Seymour — where's 
the  harm  in  that?" 

"No,  no,  old  man,"  Tony  urged,  with  reproach- 
ful rhetoric,  "play  the  game  with  a  pal." 

"Damn  it,  don't  talk  so  loud  I" 

"It's  a  terrible  shock,  old  man.    It  is  really." 

"When  did  you  become  such  a  stern  moralist? 
I  seem  to  remember " 

"Ah,  but  that's  different,  altogether  different 
from  this."     Tony  shook  his  head  sorrowfully. 

"Don't  be  such  an  infernal  humbug,"  said 
Tanstead  impatiently. 

"Humbug?  I'm  not  a  humbug."  Tony  was 
indignant,  but  still  "more  in  sorrow  than  in 
anger."    "What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

"I've  never  heard  you  go  on  like  this,"  said 
Edward,  "about  other  men  who " 

"Who  had  mistresses,  eh?" 

"Don't  say  that,  damn  you."  The  word  had 
flicked  Edward  on  the  raw.  "Why  the  devil 
couldn't  you  keep  outside?"  he  concluded  sav- 
agely. 

"Easy,  old  man;  easy,"  Tony  urged,  "Keeping 
a " 

He  was  stopped  by  another  angry  movement 
on  Edward's  part.  He  put  up  a  deprecating 
hand. 

"All  right,  all  right,  I  know.  Well,  that's  one 
thing.  This  is  altogether  different.  There's  the 
children,  don't  you  know?" 

Edward  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"Well,  what  about  them?" 

"They're  the  awful,  shocking  part  of  it.    It's 


248    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

like  bigamy.  I  say,  you  haven't  gone  and  done 
that?"  he  added,  struck  by  a  sudden  fear. 

"No;  of  course  not,"  was  Edward's  contemptu- 
ous response. 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  at  anything 
now,"  Tony  lamented.  "I'm  simply  knocked  all 
over  the  place.  I  say,  you  know,  it  really  isn't 
playing  the  game.  Bad  form.  Sort  o'  thing 
that  isn't  done.  Another  woman,  well,  it's — 
it's  wrong,  of  course,  and  all  that;  still,  fellers  do 
it.  But  a  regular  respectable  home  and  children. 
I  never " 

Edward  raised  his  head. 

"  'Shhl"  he  said,  listening.  "Yes;  they're  com- 
ing."   Voices  could  be  heard  on  the  stairs. 

"But  before  you  go,"  Margaret  was  saying, 
"will  you  teU  me  where  I  could  read — ^where  I 
could  get  a  book  about  Pericles,  whom  you  talked 
about?" 

"Were  you  so  much  interested?"  asked  Muriel, 
with  a  smile,  thinking  how  amused  Edward  would 
be  to  hear  of  this  odd  person's  interest  in  such 
a  subject. 

"Yes,"  said  Margaret  simply.  "I — I  never 
thought  of  such  arrangements  being  looked  upon 
as  ordinary  and  not — not  objected  to." 

"Marriage  customs  have  varied  so  much  in 
different  ages,  haven't  they?" 

"Have  they?  I  didn't  know.  Can  you  tell 
me  a  book?" 

"I'll  send  you  a  post  card,"  Muriel  promised, 
thanking  some  vague  deity  that  she  had  not  got 
to  live  with  people  devoid  of  a  sense  of  humour. 


THE  FHUIT  OF  THE  THEE     249 

"I  won't  forget.  Good-bye,  and  thank  you 
again  so  much." 

Margaret  waved  a  hand  in  acknowledgment 
of  the  last  good-bye,  then  turned  back  from  the 
door  into  the  cottage. 

She  looked  at  the  tea-table  and  the  disarranged 
chairs.  She  moved  one  of  them  to  convince  her- 
self that  it  was  not  a  dream. 

Then  she  stood  quite  still,  her  arms  by  her 
side  and  her  eyes  closed  tight  as  if  in  pain,  as 
if  she  were  trying  to  blot  out  the  impressions 
of  the  afternoon. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

§i 

The  dinner  that  Mrs.  Tanstead  had  ordered  for 
half  past  seven  was  causing  Mrs.  Tanstead's  cook 
painful  perturbation  of  spirit.  An  actor  without 
an  audience,  a  painter  with  a  gallery  full  of  pic- 
tures and  nobody  to  look  at  them,  a  conjurer 
with  all  his  tricks  ready,  but  not  a  single  spec- 
tator— the  lot  of  each  of  these  is  hard,  but  noth- 
ing to  equal  the  harsh  destiny  of  a  cook  with  a 
dinner  all  prepared  and  no  one  to  eat  it :  for  the 
dinner,  once  cooked,  must  be  straightway  eaten 
or  it  is  spoilt.  And  spoilt  Mrs.  Tanstead's  cook's 
dinner  was  rapidly  becoming,  for  it  was  now  close 
on  nine  o'clock,  and  neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs.  Tan- 
stead  had  come  home. 

The  clock  in  the  room  where  Edward  had  made 
his  confession  in  the  morning  struck  nine  with 
a  gentle  tone  of  reproach.  The  curtains  were 
drawn,  the  lamps  lighted.  A  bright  little  fire 
was  burning.  All  looked  cosy  and  comfortable, 
an  ideal  retreat  for  a  spring  evening.  But  there 
was  no  one  to  enjoy  it. 

However,  just  after  nine  had  struck  there  was 
a  noise  of  a  motor  pulling  up,  and  a  few  mo- 
ments later  Muriel  and  Tony  came  in. 

"You'd  better  stay  and  have  dinner,"  Muriel 
said.    "The  others  will  be  here  directly." 

2^ 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     251 

"No  I  won't,  thanks.  I  must  get  back  home. 
Pity  we're  too  late  for  the  play." 

"Yes;  bad  luck  we  should  both  have  tyre 
trouble." 

She  watched  Tony  with  a  puzzled  look.  He 
was  ill  at  ease.  He  was  walking  about  the  room 
picking  things  up  and  putting  them  down  again. 
He  seemed  to  have  something  on  his  mind.  As 
Muriel  wanted  to  go  and  change  her  clothes,  she 
wished  he  would  be  quick  and  get  it  off. 

Tony  was  hard  put  to  it,  however,  to  word 
what  he  wanted  to  say.  He  had  been  genuinely 
shocked  by  what  he  discovered  at  the  cottage. 
All  his  old  affection  surged  up ;  he  felt  that  Muriel 
had  been  shamefully  treated;  he  wished  he  could 
show  her  in  some  way  what  his  feeling  was.  It 
was  difficult  to  hit  upon  a  way,  since  she  did  not 
know  what  he  knew  and  would  be  surprised  if  he 
displayed  any  unusual  warmth  of  sentiment. 
However,  he  was  deeply  stirred  and,  never  hav- 
ing learned  the  desirability  of  smothering  senti- 
mental impulses,  he  could  not  help  but  speak. 

"I  say,"  he  told  her  at  last,  suddenly  and  in 
connection  with  nothing,  "if  ever  you  want  a 
friend,  Muriel,  let  me  know." 

He  fetched  up  a  deep  sigh.  The  phrase  he 
had  been  trying  to  find  all  the  way  home  had 
come  at  last.  But  Muriel,  ignorant  of  the  cause 
which  prompted  it,  was  not  in  the  least  impressed. 

"You  aren't  going  off  your  head,  are  you, 
Tony?"  she  asked  impatiently,  gazing  at  him  as 
if  he  were  some  curious  animal. 

"You  never  know  when  you  may  want  a 


252     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

friend,"  said  Tony  doggedly,  not  to  be  chaffed 
away  from  the  subject  which  occupied  his  mind. 
"I'U  be  ready." 

"Have  you  any  meaning,"  Muriel  inquired 
with  a  shade  of  interest,  "or  are  you  just  drivel- 
ling as  usual?" 

Tony  paid  no  heed  to  her  tone.  He  had  some- 
thing more  to  say,  and  how  to  say  it  was  a  mat- 
ter requiring  all  his  mental  effort. 

"Look  here,"  he  began,  "I  haven't  ever  said 
anything  to  you  that  a  feller  oughtn't  to  say  to 
his  friend's  wife,  have  I?" 

"No;  of  course  not.    I  shouldn't  have  let  you." 

"I've  often  wanted  to,  though." 

Muriel  looked  at  him  with  a  different  kind  of 
curiosity.  Tony  was  revealing  himself  in  a  new 
Hght. 

"Really  I"  she  said.  "That's  rather  nice  of  you, 
Tony.    I  didn't  think "    She  paused  smiling. 

"Didn't  think  what?" 

"Oh,  nothing!" 

"You  didn't  think  I  was  that  kind  of  feller, 
you  mean,"  he  blurted  out,  and  added  defiantly: 
"Well,  I  ami" 

"The  situation,"  said  Muriel  demurely,  "seems 
to  require  that  I  should  be  shocked." 

"I  say,  you  won't  forbid  me  the  house  or  any- 
thing?" asked  Tony  seriously. 

"Oh  dear,  no;  I'm  beginning  to  be  quite  inter- 
ested in  you." 

Tony  showed  signs  of  relief  from  his  sudden 
anxietj'. 

**I  was  afraid  you  might  be  frightfully  angry." 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     253 

"Then  why  did  you  tell  me?"  Muriel  inquired, 
still  regarding  him  with  amused  wonder. 

Tony  became  portentous  at  once. 

"I  can't  say  .  .  .  just  now." 

"Then  you  don't  want  me  to  elope  with  you 
.  .  .  just  now?"     She  mimicked  him  again. 

"I  say,  don't  joke  about  it.  Besides,  someone 
might  hear.  Look  out,  here's  someone  coming 
now." 

There  was  a  knock  and  the  maid  came  in. 

"If  you  please,  ma'am,  there's  a  lady  called 
and  wants  to  see  Mr.  Tanstead." 

"Where  is  she?" 

"I  showed  her  into  the  library,  ma*am." 

"You  told  her  Mr.  Tanstead  hadn't  come  in 
yet?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  and  she  asked  if  she  could  wait. 
She  said  it  was  business." 

"There's  no  fire  in  the  library.  You'd  better 
ask  her  to  wait  here.  I'm  going  to  change  my 
dress.    Mr.  Tanstead  can't  be  long  now." 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

The  maid  withdrew. 

"Well,  I  must  be  going,"  said  Tony.  "Don't 
forget  what  I  said.  When  you  want  a  friend, 
I'm  ready." 

He  went  towards  the  door. 

"I'll  make  a  note  of  it,"  replied  Muriel  gaily, 
as  he  went  out.  "Good-night.  You'll  feel  bet- 
ter in  the  morning." 

Humming  to  herself,  she  took  up  her  motor- 
coat,  stopped  a  moment  before  the  glass  to  give 
a  touch  to  her  cap,  and  then  walked  slowly  across 


254     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

to  the  door,  thinking  over  Tony*s  strange  re- 
marks. Before  she  had  got  across  the  room  the 
door  opened  and  the  maid  appeared  again,  with 
Margaret  behind  her.  Catching  sight  of  Muriel, 
Margaret  had  an  impulse  to  turn  quickly  away. 
But  it  was  too  late. 

"Is  it  Mrs.  Seymour?"  Muriel  asked,  her  tone 
discovering  her  surprise. 

Margaret  came  into  the  room. 

For  a  while  after  her  guests  had  left  the  cot- 
tage, Margaret  stood  on  the  same  spot.  She 
looked  and  felt  as  if  she  had  been  overtaken  by 
the  fate  of  Lot's  wife,  and  been  tiu'ned  into  a 
pillar  of  salt. 

Vaguely  she  had  always  feared  something  of 
this  kind.  Unfortunately  she  had  never  prepared 
her  mind  to  meet  it  when  it  did  happen.  The  ad- 
vantage of  accustoming  ourselves  to  think  of  pos- 
sible misfortunes  is  that  we  may  know  how  to 
act  in  the  moment  of  their  occurrence.  We  can 
by  imagining  ourselves  the  sport  of  this  or  that 
circumstance  or  accident  train  our  wills  to  take  a 
certain  direction  should  our  imaginings  come 
true.  We  can  apply  to  our  own  characters  the 
same  sort  of  discipline  which  the  soldier  under- 
goes, the  discipline  which  aims  at  making  persist- 
ence in  face  of  danger  a  habit  instead  of  an  eflPort. 
Margaret  had  never  applied  such  discipline.  She 
had  thrust  away  the  thought  of  discovery,  refused 
to  let  it  lodge  in  her  mind.    Now  that  discovery 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     255 

had  come,  she  was  terrified,  bewildered,  wretched 
— the  result  of  the  paralysis  of  her  will.  It  was 
indecision  that  made  her  afraid  and  miserable. 
Because  she  had  lost  resolution,  she  didn't  know 
which  way  to  turn. 

It  was  not  so  much  Mrs.  Tanstead's  visit  that 
disturbed  her.  That  had  been  unpleasant  while 
it  lasted ;  it  had  caused  her  a  sense  of  humiliation, 
inferiority ;  it  had  left  behind  a  disagreeable  mem- 
ory. But  it  was  over.  It  had  led  to  no  revela- 
tion, there  was  no  reason  that  she  knew  of  (she 
did  not  know  of  Tony's  enlightenment)  why  it 
should  have  any  consequences.  All  might  go  on 
as  before. 

No,  it  was  not  Muriel's  but  the  Bishop's  visit 
which  made  Margaret  feel  as  if  the  planks  of  her 
happy,  untroubled  existence  were  giving  way 
beneath  her,  as  if  she  were  going  suddenly  to  be 
plunged  into  another  kind  of  existence,  about 
which  she  knew  nothing,  and  of  which  she  felt 
afraid.  She  went  over,  as  she  stood  there,  her 
hands  hanging  loosely  before  her,  just  as  she  had 
dropped  them  after  they  had  been  pressed  so 
tightly  against  her  eyes — she  went  over  all  the 
incidents  of  the  afternoon  since  she  had  been 
interrupted  at  her  peaceful  ironing.  That  was 
the  last  peaceful  moment  she  had  known,  or  ever 
would  know,  it  seemed  to  her  in  her  despair.  If 
only  she  could  blot  out  all  that  happened  after 
she  heard  Edward's  motor  car  draw  up  outside 
the  cottage!  If  only  she  could  experience  again 
and  hold  on  to  the  happiness  which  made  her  sing 
softly  to  herself  as  she  ironed  1 


256     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

What  the  Bishop  wanted  was  clear,  and  cer- 
tainly his  intention  was  to  benefit  her,  to  give  her 
the  position  that  was  hers  (as  he  argued)  by 
right.  He  had  been  very  kind.  She  could  not 
help  liking  him,  being  grateful  to  him,  almost 
loving  him  for  his  affection  and  sympathy.  But 
at  the  same  time  she  felt  a  certain  resentment 
against  him.  Why  did  he  want  to  change  her 
existence  into  another  existence?  She  was  con- 
tented as  she  was,  no  alteration  in  her  hfe  could 
increase  her  contentment,  it  was  quite  possible 
that  she  might  never  be  so  happy  again. 

Of  course  she  would  rather  have  been  properly 
married  to  Edward  at  first.  To  have  begun  as 
man  and  wife  together  openly  would  have  spared 
her  many  a  wakeful  night  of  anxiety,  many  a 
sharp  pain  caused  to  her  by  consciousness  of  sin. 
But  now  she  had  got  used  to  her  position,  now 
she  had  settled  down  to  the  conditions  which  she 
and  Tanstead  (she  more  than  Tanstead)  had 
planned  out  for  their  home.  She  could  under- 
stand quite  well  how  it  was  Edward  and  his  wife 
had  managed  to  remain  friends.  She  could  see 
that  his  wife  was  "clever,"  she  could  talk  to  him 
on  his  own  level;  she  was  in  some  ways,  it  seemed 
to  Margaret,  even  "cleverer"  than  he.  He  had 
often  mentioned  dinner-parties  that  he  had  been 
to,  and  she  had  thought  of  him  as  going  to  them 
alone.  Now  she  saw  his  wife  always  with  him, 
attractive,  dressed  with  taste  and  charm,  meet- 
ing everybody  on  terms  of  equality,  talking 
"cleverly,"  making  him  glad  to  know  that  people 
admired  her. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     257 

She  could  not  imagine  herself  as  his  companion 
on  such  occasions.  She  would  be  and  feel  out 
of  her  element.  She  would  not  know  how  to 
dress  or  what  to  say.  In  Margaret's  mind  there 
was  all  the  difference  in  the  world  between  the 
"clever"  people  and  those  who  modestly  dis- 
claimed the  possession  of  cleverness :  "Oh,  I'm  not 
clever,  you  know."  That  was  a  barrier  not  to  be 
leaped ;  that  was  a  hindrance  to  social  intercourse 
far  greater  than  any  difference  in  income  or  oc- 
cupation, greater  even  than  title  or  family  pride. 
Edward's  wife  was  "clever,"  no  doubt  about  that. 
Here  was  the  bond  between  them.  The  tie  that 
bound  Edward  to  Margaret  was  altogether  dif- 
ferent ;  it  was  a  tie  that  she  loved,  it  might  endure 
all  their  lives,  under  existing  conditions  she 
thought  it  would.  But  she  had  sometimes  won- 
dered how  it  would  stand  the  strain  of  daily  life 
together,  whether  he  would  be  satisfied  with  her 
companionship  only. 

There  was  so  much  that  the  Bishop  did  not 
weigh.  He  wanted  to  butt  in  and  settle  other 
folks'  business  for  them  upon  general  principles. 
He  was  right,  of  course,  in  a  way,  and  he  meant 
it  kindly  to  her.  No  doubt  in  time  she  and 
Edward  would  settle  down  contentedly  on  a  new 
basis  .  .  .  but  still  there  was  in  her  thought 
some  shadowy  obstacle  to  the  course  proposed 
which  seemed  insuperable.  What  was  this  unde- 
fined, misty  mass  of  objection?  The  little  boys 
came  running  in  and  she  knew.  She  gathered 
them  both  to  her  breast,  kissing  them,  and  mur- 
muring passionate  little  words  of  affection.    "My 


258     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

own,"  she  said;  "my  very  own,  my  darlings,  all 
mummy's,  all  mine." 

Then,  as  she  held  them  at  arm's-length,  tired 
and  astonished  little  figures,  and  looked  at  them 
with  loving  pride,  she  felt  that  she  could  not  bear 
them  to  pass  under  any  authority  but  hers.  Ed- 
ward would  have  ideas  of  his  own  about  their 
bringing-up.  He  wanted  to  make  them  afraid  of 
animals,  and  animals  therefore  afraid  of  them; 
he  spoke  already  of  sending  them  to  school,  tiny 
as  they  were.  Many  Httle  differences  of  outlook 
had  revealed  themselves ;  she  had  paid  them  next 
to  no  attention,  but  now  they  came  back  into  her 
mind.  She  must  keep  the  children  to  herself. 
Upon  that  her  will  stiffened,  and  at  once  she 
became  happier.  She  no  longer  felt  irresolute. 
She  felt  braced  up  and  determined.  With  a 
lighter  heart  she  gave  the  little  boys  their  supper 
and  put  them  to  bed. 

Then  she  sat  down  and  thought.  A  restless- 
ness soon  came  upon  her.  She  feared  that  deci- 
sions might  be  taken  before  she  could  intervene, 
and  state  her  point  of  view — decisions  which 
could  not  be  called  back.  Perhaps  at  that  in- 
stant Edward  was,  under  the  Bishop's  pressure, 
altering  the  course  of  his  and  her  life  and  of  his 
wife's  life  too.  Suddenly  Margaret  began  to  see 
what  the  carrying  out  of  the  Bishop's  proposal 
would  mean  for  Edward's  wife.  It  would  mean 
a  break-up  of  her  existence.  Perhaps  she  was 
fond  of  Edward  in  her  way.  Not  for  a  moment 
did  Margaret  wish,  now  that  she  had  made  her 
acquaintance,  to  do  Edward's  wife  any  harm. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     259 

Muriel's  appearance  had  surprised  her.  She  had 
thought  of  Edward's  wife  as  elderly  and  invalid- 
ish  and  disagreeable.  How  she  got  this  impres- 
sion Heaven  only  knows.  How  do  we  form  false 
images  of  people  we  hear  about?  Chiefly  out 
of  our  inchnations,  friendly  or  hostile,  towards 
them.  At  all  events  it  astonished  Margaret  to 
see  a  young,  good-looking  woman  with  so  good- 
natured  a  manner  and  so  gay  a  temperament. 
And  it  had  the  effect,  not  of  arousing  jealousy 
but  of  making  her  disposition  towards  Edward's 
wife  more  kindly. 

For  every  reason,  therefore,  it  was  desirable 
to  do  whatever  could  be  done  to  prevent  any  step 
being  taken  that  might  change  all  their  lives. 
fThe  conviction  rapidly  grew  in  her  that  she  ought 
to  see  Edward  at  once.  To-morrow?  No,  to- 
night. To-morrow  might  be  too  late.  But  to 
go  to  his  house,  wasn't  the  risk  too  great?  Not 
so  great  as  the  risk  that  he  would  act  upon  some 
hasty  decision.  It  was  worth  risking  everything 
to  prevent  that.  She  could  bicycle  to  the  railway 
station,  just  catch  a  train,  and  be  in  London  be- 
fore nine  o'clock. 

The  woman  who  lived  with  her  and  helped  her 
had  come  in  and  could  take  charge  of  the  chil- 
dren. She  would  be  back,  she  reckoned,  between 
eleven  and  midnight.  Only  a  few  words  with 
Edward  were  necessary,  but  those  she  must  have. 

Her  plan  worked  according  to  her  desires  until 
the  moment  when  she  found  herself  face  to  face 
with  Edward's  wife. 


260    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

§  iii 

She  felt  then,  when  she  heard  the  servant  close 
the  door  upon  her,  that  she  must  fly  to  it,  pull  it 
open  and  rush  out — into  the  air,  through  the 
streets,  into  the  train,  homel  That  impulse  she 
conquered,  and  said  weakly:  "Good-evening." 

"Why,  it's  Mrs.  Sejmtiour,"  Muriel  exclaimed. 
"Good-evening.    Is  there  anything  the  matter?" 

"No;  I  .  .  .  wanted  to  see  the  Bishop." 

"How  silly  of  the  maid !  She  said  it  was  some- 
one asking  for  my  husband." 

"Yes;  I  did.    I  wasn't  sure  of  the  house." 

"Won't  you  sit  down?  Hadn't  you  better  take 
your  coat  off.     I  hope  nothing  has  happened." 

"No;  nothing,  thank  you,"  Margaret  said,  put- 
ting her  coat  on  a  chair  beside  her.  Then,  recol- 
lecting that  she  must  suggest  some  cause  for  her 
visit,  she  added:  "At  least,  nothing  very  much." 

"How  quickly  you  have  got  here!" 

"It  doesn't  take  long  by  a  quick  train.  I 
didn't  leave  home  till  half -past  seven." 

"They're  sure  to  be  back  soon,  I  think,"  said 
Muriel,  after  a  moment's  pause.  "They  broke 
down  about  five  miles  after  we  left  you." 

"Yes?"     Margaret  was  obviously  ill  at  ease. 

Muriel  felt  annoyed  at  her  visit  and  her  ina- 
bility to  "talk  hke  a  human  being,"  as  she  put 
it  to  herself.  Still  she  felt  she  must  make  some 
conversation. 

"You  and  the  Bishop  are  old  friends?" 

"Yes.  ...  Oh  yes." 

"He  is  almost  like  a  father  to  my  husband. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     261 

You  didn't  know  my  husband  before,  did  you?" 

"Yes;  I  .  .  .  I  knew  him  a  little." 

"You  must  have  a  very  good  memory  to  recol- 
lect him." 

Margaret  looked  up  surprised. 

"Seventeen  years  since  the  Bishop  went  away," 
Muriel  explained.  "You  hadn't  seen  Edward  in 
the  meantime,  I  suppose?" 

Margaret  felt  quite  faint  at  the  thought  of 
the  abysses  which  yawned  around  her.  She  mur- 
mured: "No." 

"Did  you  know  him  again  at  once?" 

"Oh  yesl" 

Muriel  looked  at  her  curiously  and  with  vexa- 
tion. She  despaired  of  getting  this  odd  creature 
to  talk.  However,  she  would  try  one  more 
topic. 

"Do  you  come  up  to  town  often?'* 

"Scarcely  ever." 

"I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  live  in  the  country.  I 
can  never  find  enough  to  do." 

"I  have  my  children,  you  see." 

"Perhaps  you  have  always  lived  in  the  coun- 
try?" 

"No;  I  lived  in  London  for  several  years." 

"Really?   Anywhere  in  this  part  of  the  world?" 

"No;  a  long  way  off.  I  was  a  typist  in  the 
city." 

Something  seemed  suddenly  to  energise 
Muriel's  mental  processes. 

"A  typist?"  she  said.  "H'm!  I  once  had  a 
friend  who  was  a  typist.  Were  you  anywhere 
near  Chancery  Lane?" 


262     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

Edward's  story  about  a  typist  he  once  em- 
ployed had  come  back  to  her. 

"Yes,"  Margaret  answered;  "I  was  in  Chan- 
cery Lane." 

"How  curious!"  Muriel  said  thoughtfully. 
Her  mind  was  working  rapidly.  She  felt  the 
need  for  cautious  advance. 

"So  you  don't  find  it  lonely  in  the  country?" 
she  asked,  in  a  brisker  tone. 

"Never,"  said  Margaret. 

"I  suppose,"  suggested  Muriel,  in  a  tone  so 
designedly  casual  that  it  ought  to  have  put  Mar- 
garet on  her  guard,  "I  suppose  you  have  your 
husband  there  as  a  rule?" 

"No;  only  occasionally.  He  .  .  .  has  to  be 
away  a  great  deal." 

"Of  course  the  Bishop  knows  your  husband 
too?" 

"Of  course He  didn't " 

"Yes;  he  told  me  you  were  a  widow.  Funny 
of  him,  wasn't  it?" 

"You  must  have  misunderstood  him." 

"No;  I  think  not.  So  you  only  see  your  hus- 
band occasionally?" 

The  light  was  breaking  in. 

"We  were  unfortunate  in  missing  him  to- 
day." 

"He  could  not  come  this  week,"  said  Margaret 
faintly. 

"How  old  is  your  eldest  boy,  Mrs.  Seymour?" 
Muriel  asked.  She  felt  she  could  take  another 
step  forward  now. 

"Three." 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     263 

"Three,"  repeated  Muriel  slowly,  as  if  she 
were  reckoning.  "And  although  you  say  you 
hadn't  seen  my  husband  for  seventeen  years,  you 
knew  him  again  at  once." 

Margaret  looked  at  her  startled,  afraid. 

"You  said  so.  Just  now.  Tell  me,"  Muriel 
went  on,  leaning  forward,  "what  did  you  come 
here  for  this  evening?" 

"To  see  the  Bishop." 

"Yet  you  asked  to  see  my  husband,  and  told 
the  servant  you  had  business  with  him." 

"I  wanted  to  see  them  both." 

"And  you  thought  I  should  be  out  at  the 
theatre?" 

Margaret  made  no  answer. 

"What  did  you  want  to  see  them  about?" 

"I — I  cannot  tell  you." 

Muriel  rose  up  and  swiftly  crossed  to  her. 

"You  haven't  been  teUing  me  the  truth,"  she 
said. 

Margaret  rose  too,  and  backed  away  from 
her. 

"You've  no  right  to  speak  to  me  hke  that,'* 
she  murmured. 

"Haven't  I?  Haven't  I  a  right?  I'm  not  so 
sure." 

"Please  let  me  wait  downstairs,"  said  Mar- 
garet, with  as  much  dignity  as  she  could. 

Muriel,  by  a  rapid  strategic  movement,  got 
round  to  the  door  and  blocked  her  way. 

"You  came  here  to  see  my  husband,"  she  said 
vindictively. 

"I  came  to  see  the  Bishop." 


264     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"Until  to-day  you  never  saw  the  Bishop," 
Muriel  said  with  scorn. 

"How  absurd!"  retorted  Margaret,  but  ner- 
vously, without  conviction. 

"Until  to-day,"  repeated  Muriel,  "you  never 
saw  the  Bishop." 

"Let  me  go,  please.    I  don't  understand  you." 

"Oh  yes,  you  do,"  declared  Muriel  viciously. 
"You  know  I've  found  you  out." 

With  a  great  effort  of  will,  Margaret  pulled 
her  poor  shrinking,  tortured  self  together. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked.  "What  have 
you  found  out?" 

"It  came  to  me  in  a  flash  as  we  were  talking. 
Your  husband,  as  you  call  him,  is  my  husband. 
You  were  once  his  typist;  your  children  are  his." 

All  Margaret's  defence  collapsed  before  this 
direct  attack.  She  sank  down  in  a  chair,  covering 
her  face  with  her  hands.  After  a  moment  she 
heard  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  and  the  voices  of 
Edward  and  the  Bishop.  She  looked  up,  biting 
her  lip  to  keep  back  the  tears.  Muriel  stood 
watching  her  closely. 

The  door  opened.  Muriel  was  behind  it.  For 
an  instant  she  was  hidden  from  Edward's  sight, 
for  it  was  he  who  opened  the  door.  On  the  thresh- 
old he  stopped.    He  saw  no  one  but  Margaret. 

"Margaret!"  he  exclaimed,  in  amazement. 
"Why,  what " 

Then,  as  he  stepped  forward,  he  saw  Muriel. 

He  gave  one  glance  at  her,  and  he  quietly  shut 
the  door. 


CHAPTER  XX 


The  moment  of  which  Edward  and  Margaret 
had  both  thought  often,  and  with  a  fluttering 
round  their  hearts,  had  come.  Chance  had  played 
the  Bishop's  game.  The  secret  that  had  been 
well  kept  for  five  years  was  out. 

Edward  was  outwardly  calm  but  under  the 
surface  there  raged  a  fury  of  annoyance  with 
Margaret,  and  there  gripped  him  also  a  fear  of 
seeming  ridiculous  in  Muriel's  eyes.  He  could 
see  the  farcical  side  of  his  situation  between  these 
two  women  and  himself;  he  knew  that  it  would 
appeal  to  Muriel's  sense  of  the  absurd. 

Whenever  he  had  contemplated  the  giving  up 
of  his  and  Margaret's  secret,  he  had  figured  in 
the  scene  heroically  almost.  His  would  be  the 
personality  to  dominate  the  drama.  He  would  be 
the  sympathetic  character.  In  that  moment 
Muriel  would  realise  bitterly  what  she  had  lost; 
and  the  world,  if  the  world  had  to  know,  would 
at  all  events  make  excuses,  and,  struck  by  his 
manly  bearing,  call  him  a  fine  fellow. 

Now  he  felt  that  Margaret's  folly,  for  which 
he  could  guess  no  explanation,  had  put  him  into 
a  false  position.  Muriel  must  be  inwardly  laugh- 
ing at  him,  in  spite  of  her  anger  and  possible 

265 


266     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

anxiety  as  to  the  future.  And  although  he  no 
longer  loved  Muriel — perhaps  because  he  no 
longer  loved  her — Edward  felt  that  notion  of  her 
laughing  at  him  like  a  lash. 

However,  he  showed  nothing  of  his  feelings  in 
his  expression.  His  manner  became  more  re- 
strained than  usual.  He  shut  the  door  quietly, 
and,  addressing  himself  to  Muriel,  he  said,  in- 
terrogatively: "Well?" 

"I  know  everything,'*  she  replied  curtly. 

Edward,  with  the  faintest  suggestion  of  a 
shrug  of  his  shoulders,  crossed  over  to  Margaret. 

"Why  did  you  come?"  he  asked,  in  an  under- 
tone. 

"To  try  and  prevent  .  .  .  this,"  she  said,  with 
a  little  gesture,  showing  that  she  reahsed  how 
completely  she  had  failed. 

"Well,  but  didn't  you  .  .  .  didn't  the  risk 
occur  to  you?" 

He  was  repressing  his  impatience  as  well  as 
he  could. 

"Yes;  I  knew  that.  But  I'd  been  thinking 
everything  over.  I  had  to  see  you  ...  to  ask 
you  not  to  do  what  the  Bishop  said." 

"SsshI"  Edward  warned  her,  for  Muriel  was 
listening  and  clearly  had  all  her  wits  about  her. 

"Isn't  it  rather  late  to  hush  things  up?"  asked 
Muriel,  in  a  cold  voice.  "Hadn't  you  better  tell 
me  what  the  Bishop  did  say?" 

"Muriel,  please  ...  if  you'd  only  go  up  to 
yom-  room "  Edward  began. 

"No,  we'd  better  have  it  out  now,"  she  an- 
swered decisively. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     267 

"Can't  you  see  how  impossible  it  is?" 

Edward  spoke  pleadingly  rather  than  with  ir- 
ritation. All  the  annoyance  he  felt  now  was 
against  Margaret. 

"It's  awkward  for  you,  but  that's  your  own 
fault.    What  did  the  Bishop  say?" 

Edward  turned  from  her,  said  nothing,  tapped 
with  his  toe  on  the  carpet. 

"You  had  better  tell  her,"  Margaret  urged, 
in  a  low,  strained  voice. 

He  took  no  notice, 

"Well,  I  will  tell  her,"  she  murmured;  and 
then  to  Muriel:  "He  said  that  your  marriage 
was — not  real." 

"Why?"  asked  Muriel,  in  astonishment.  "We 
were  married  in  church,"  she  added,  with  some 
asperity. 

"If  you  must  know,"  broke  in  Edward,  "he 
said  I  ought  to  leave  you." 

"Pretty  kind  of  bishop." 

"And  that  my  duty  was  to — the  mother  of  my 
children." 

Again  Edward  felt  slightly  ridiculous. 

But  Muriel  was  not  now  seeing  the  amusing 
side  of  the  situation.  She  was  really  angry  her- 
self. 

"I  never  heard  anything  so  disgraceful.  When 
he's  actually  staying  in  my  house!  It's  out- 
rageous!" 

Then  she  turned  to  Margaret. 

"And  I  suppose  you  came  up  to  make  final 
arrangements  for  stealing  my  husband,  as  the 
Bishop  advised?" 


268    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"Don't  talk  in  that  absurd  way,"  Edward  said, 
now  irritated  against  Muriel  as  well.  And  then 
to  Margaret,  not  very  kindly:  "You'd  better 
come  downstairs.  You'll  have  to  be  getting 
home." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Muriel  sharply.  "Are 
you  going  too?" 

"No;  of  course  not." 

"That's  what  Mrs.  Seymour  came  for,  I  sup- 
pose." 

Edward  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Oh,  I've  no  doubt  it  isn't  the  way  you'd  have 
chosen,"  went  on  Muriel  sarcastically.  "I  sup- 
pose your  idea  was  to  choose  your  own  time,  and 
stand  in  the  limelight  as  a  martyr,  and  try  to 
put  me  in  the  wrong  before  everybody." 

"That  was  just  what  I  wanted  to  stop,"  Mar- 
garet put  in. 

"You  see  there's  someone  else  who  understands 
you,  Edward,  besides  me,"  Muriel  remarked 
spitefully. 

"I  sat  and  thought  it  all  over,"  Margaret  went 
on  hurriedly.  "You  were  so  unlike  what  I  ex- 
pected. I  imagined  that  you  were — not  young — 
well,  altogether  different.  Why,  you're  as  young 
as  I  am.  I  felt  it  would  be  mean.  I  had  to 
come  to  tell  Edward " 

"You  can  tell  me  downstairs,"  he  interrupted. 

"I  would  rather  Mrs.  Tanstead  heard  too. 
Please,  believe  me,"  she  went  on,  addressing 
Muriel.  "I  didn't  come  to  ask  Edward  to  go 
away.  I  thought  you  would  be  out.  Seeing 
you  confused  me  and  made  me  feel — ah,  I  feel 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     269 

faint  again  now,'*  she  gasped.  "I'm  so 
sorry " 

She  swayed  and  would  have  fallen,  but  Ed- 
ward caught  her  and  supported  her  to  the  door. 

"You'd  better  lie  down  on  the  couch  down- 
stairs for  a  few  minutes  before  you  go,"  he  said, 
and  half  led,  half  carried  her  out. 


8  ^ 

That  night  Tanstead  and  the  Bishop  left  the 
flat. 

Before  Muriel  had  finished  changing  her  dress 
— "we  must  change  our  clothes  whatever  our 
domestic  circumstances  may  be,"  she  thought, 
with  a  flicker  of  amusement — Edward  knocked 
at  her  door  and  asked  if  she  would  speak  to  him. 
She  opened  the  door,  and  noticed  at  once  that 
he  was  carrying  a  suit-case. 

"Are  you  going  away?"  she  asked  at  once. 

"Yes,  I'd  better  .  .  .  for  your  sake.  You  see, 
if  I  stayed  here,  even  a  single  night,  after  you've 
found  out  about" — he  jerked  his  head  to  fiU  up 
the  blank — "it  might  be  held  that  you  condoned 
it  and  you  wouldn't  be  able  to  get  .  .  ."he  was 
going  to  say  "a  divorce/'  but  it  sounded  so  brutal 
that  he  changed  it  for  the  legal  term  "rehef." 

"But  you  don't  know  yet  that  I  want  .  .  . 
rehef,"  she  retorted.  "We'd  better  discuss  the 
whole  thing." 

"I'm  most  fearfully  sorry,"  Tanstead  mur- 
mured. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 


270     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"I  suppose  I  might  have  expected  something 
of  the  kind.  The  children  are  a  little  bit  of  a 
shock.  However,  it's  no  use  talking  about  it  now. 
I  can  understand  the  Bishop's  anxiety  to  get 
away  from  'under  my  roof — I'm  sure  that's  how 
he  puts  it.  Old-fashioned  people  always  talk 
about  'roofs'  when  they  feel  tragic  or  sentimental. 
When  will  you  come?  To-morrow?  Not  in  the 
evening.  I've  got  to  go  to  the  Drama  Society. 
Oh,  and  in  the  afternoon  there's  that  party  you 
meant  to  go  to — what  a  pity!  Better  make  it 
Monday." 

Tanstead  felt  depressed  for  a  moment  as  he 
thought  of  the  rather  pleasant  round  of  engage- 
ments made  for  him.  Then  he  dismissed  the 
thought  of  these  as  unworthy.  "They're  noth- 
ing," he  told  himself,  but  he  was  conscious  all 
the  same  that  they  meant  a  good  deal  to  him  and 
that  the  social  side  of  his  existence,  thanks  to 
Muriel,  had  been  very  agreeable. 

"I  shan't  say  anything  to  anyone  except 
Anne,"  Muriel  added.  "I'm  going  to  ask  her 
to  come  and  stay." 

"Tony  knows,"  Tanstead  told  her.  "He  found 
out  .  .  .  down  there." 

"Well,  no  one  else  need  know  for  the  present," 
said  Muriel.  "Good-night,  Edward,"  and  she 
shut  the  door.  At  once  she  went  to  the  telephone 
which  stood  on  her  bedside  table,  rang  up  Anne, 
was  told  she  was  out,  left  a  message  for  her  to 
ring  through  as  soon  as  she  came  in.  Then  she 
asked  her  maid  to  bring  up  some  dinner,  and, 
letting  her  hair  down,  she  slipped  into  a  kimono. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     271 

resolved  to  spend  the  rest  of  the  evening  where 
she  was. 

Analysing  her  sensations,  according  to  her  cus- 
tom, she  discovered  that  after  her  burst  of  indig- 
nation— "mechanical"  she  called  it — she  now  felt 
neither  anger  nor  fierce  resentment  against  any- 
body. Edward  aroused  in  her  a  contemptuous 
pity;  it  was  so  hke  him  to  get  mixed  up  in  an 
affair  of  this  domestic  kind  instead  of  the  usual 
casa  chica  arrangement  which  entailed  no  awk- 
ward consequences.  Towards  Margaret  she  had 
no  feehng  whatever,  except  that  she  was  a  Httle 
ashamed  of  herself  for  the  severity  of  her  cross- 
examination.  Against  the  Bishop  she  did  direct 
a  vindictive  thought  or  two :  why  couldn't  he  mind 
his  own  business?  But  even  he  rather  diverted 
than  enraged  her. 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  his  meddling,  we  could 
all  have  gone  on  comfortably.  I  need  never 
have  found  out  anything.  Really,  that  would 
have  been  much  better." 

Thus  Muriel  to  Anne  next  morning.  From 
Anne  she  had  no  secrets  and  found  her  a  most 
satisfactory  "confessor,"  for,  while  Anne  ac- 
cepted all  confidences  wiUingly,  she  offered  none 
of  her  own.  Miu*iel,  if  she  thought  about  it  at 
all,  thought  that  she  had  none  to  offer.  She  might 
have  been  startled  if  Anne  had  revealed  to  her  the 
fires  which  burned  beneath  her  plain  and  ap- 
parently unromantic  surface.  She  would  cer- 
tainly have  been  surprised  to  know  how  Anne's 
affection  for  her  was  struggling  at  this  moment 
with  a  sense  of  triumph  at  what  she  considered 


272     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

the  just  retribution  which  had  fallen  upon  her 
friend. 

"Of  course  it  would  have  been  more  conve- 
nient,'* Anne  agreed.  "But  the  question  is: 
What  are  you  going  to  do  now?  I  suppose  you 
will  be  all  right  for  money?" 

"If  there's  a  divorce,  you  mean?  Oh,  I  sup- 
pose so." 

"Why,  how  can  there  help  being  a  divorce?" 
''Well,  you  know,  I  had  a  big  think  last  night. 
I  didn't  come  to  any  absolutely  definite  conclu- 
sions, but  it  does  seem  to  me  to  be  absurd,  Anne, 
that  we  should  go  on  behaving  like  people  in 
the  nineteenth  century  when  we  don't  think  like 
them  or  beheve  the  things  they  believed." 

"We  don't  go  on  behaving  like  them,"  Anne 
objected.  "They  thought  marriages  were  made 
— or,  at  any  rate,  registered — in  heaven,  and 
therefore  they  thought  divorce  dreadfuL  We 
take  it  as  a  matter  of  course." 

"Ye-es,"  said  Muriel,  hesitating;  "but  haven't 
we  really  got  a  stage  beyond  that  in  our  ideas? 
Why  should  I  want  to  divorce  Edward  and  break 
up  our  lives  because  he's  fond  of  another  woman 
in  quite  a  different  way?" 

"Good  Lord!"  Anne  commented,  "you've  cer- 
tainly done  some  thinking.  You've  abolished 
marriage  in  the  course  of  the  night — if  you're 
serious.'* 

"Yes,  I'm  serious.  Not  about  abolishing  mar- 
riage. Let  everyone  do  as  they  please  about 
that.  But  I  can't  see  why  a  mere  convention 
should  be  allowed  to  tyrannise  over  us.    I  mean 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     273 

divorce.  It's  just  as  much  a  tyrannical  conven- 
tion now  as  indissoluble  marriage  used  to  be. 
Perfectly  ridiculous!  There  are  lots  of  women 
who'd  be  quite  content  with  a  share  of  their  hus- 
bands' companionship,  common  tastes  and  inter- 
ests, intellectual  sympathy.  Isn't  it  rather  de- 
grading to  mix  all  that  up  with — the  other 
thing?" 

Anne  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

''However  little  importance  a  woman  may  at- 
tach to  technical  fidelity,  she's  compelled  to  be 
tragic  about  it  and  go  for  a  divorce  as  soon  as  she 
finds  out  any  breach  of  it.  That's  why  so  many 
women  deliberately  conceal  the  fact  that  they 
have  found  it  out." 

"But  they  aren't  compelled,"  Anne  protested. 
"Who  compels  them?" 

"Pubhc  opinion.  If  I  said  openly,  *I  don't 
mind  about  this  other  establishment  of  Edward's. 
That  appeals  to  one  side  of  his  nature,  I  appeal 
to  another,'  there  would  be  a  fearful  scandal. 
Yet  I  should  only  be  saying  openly  what  lots 
of  women  think  and  act  upon  in  a  secret,  hush- 
hush  way." 

"But  what  about  Edward^"  asked  Anne 
bluntly. 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"You're  talking,  my  dear,  as  if  the  divorce  were 
a  matter  that  concerned  only  you;  I  say,  what 
about  Edward?    Perhaps  he  may  want  it." 

"I've  thought  about  that  too,"  Muriel  said, 
"but  I  don't  think  he  can.  Why  should  he?  He 
has  everything  to  lose  and  next  to  nothing  to 


274     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

gain  by  changing  the  present  arrangement.  Be- 
sides ...  it  doesn't  lie  with  him  to  say  whether 
there  shall  be  a  divorce  or  not.  It's  for  me  to 
decide.  Of  course,"  she  went  on  quickly,  "if 
he  came  to  me  and  said,  'I'm  madly  in  love,' 
or  'I  simply  can't  stand  Hving  with  you  any 
longer,'  I  should  divorce  him  at  once.  But  I'm 
confident  he  won't  do  that." 

"Still,  there's  a  third  party.  Wouldn't  it  be 
a  bit  rough  on  her  to  leave  things  as  they  are?" 

"Yes,  that  is  a  difficulty,  I  admit.  I  suppose 
she'd  hke  to  have  her  position  regularised.  She'd 
rather  be  Mrs.  Pericles,  with  me  as  Aspasia,  in- 
stead of  it  being  the  other  way  round." 

Anne  gazed  blankly.  Muriel  told  her  about 
the  discussion  at  the  cottage  during  tea. 

"The  funny  thing  was  I  told  Edward  I  ought 
to  have  been  his  Aspasia!  I  shouldn't  mind 
changing  places  now  if  it  were  possible." 

"Talk  sense,"  Anne  exhorted  her  curtly. 

"I  really  beheve  you're  shocked,  you  funny  old 
thing,"  Muriel  chaflPed. 

"I  am,"  was  Anne's  prompt  admission.  Ready 
as  she  was  to  harbour  new  ideas,  free  from  preju- 
dices as  she  believed  herself  to  be,  she  did  think 
Muriel  was  "going  a  bit  too  far." 

§  iii 

This  calmly  reflective  mood  in  which  Muriel 
had  debated  her  situation  with  Anne  was  broken 
during  the  next  few  days  by  impulses  and 
anxieties  which  set  her  thoughts  moving  first 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     275 

in  one  direction,  then  in  another.  It  was  not 
to  be  expected  that  she  could  rise  superior  to  the 
perplexities  which  beset  men  and  women  when 
they  are  suddenly  forced  to  take  decisions  which 
must  affect  the  whole  future  course  of  their  lives. 
One  morning  she  woke  up  cheerless  and  distrust- 
ful of  her  judgment.  She  needed  support  and 
could  not  find  any.  The  flat  was  dull;  Edward's 
absence  made  it  quiet  and  empty.  The  uncer- 
tainty of  the  future  weighed  upon  her  spirits. 
The  recollection  of  Tony's  assurance  that  he 
would  always  be  her  friend  came  to  her  then, 
with  a  comforting  effect,  and  she  wondered 
whether,  after  all,  that  wouldn't  be  the  simplest 
solution.  So  she  wrote  a  little  note  to  him  asking 
him  to  come  and  see  her,  and  letting  it  appear 
that  she  might  mean  to  take  advantage  of  what 
he  had  said. 

Tony  got  this  note  at  breakfast ;  before  he  had 
finished  Tanstead  called. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  to  do  something  for  me. 
There  are  several  things  I  want  from  the  flat. 
I  can't  go  and  get  them.  I  don't  like  to 
ask  Muriel.  Would  you  mind  fetching  them  for 
mef 

"Not  a  bit.  Delighted,"  Tony  said.  "I  was 
going  there  anyway.  I've  had  a  note  from 
Muriel." 

There  was  a  certain  self -consciousness  in  his 
tone  as  he  said  this,  but  Tanstead  noticed  nothing. 

"I'm  glad  you're  going,"  he  said,  and  then 
went  on  rapidly:  "I  wish  to  God  all  this  could 
have  been  avoided.     It  seems  hard  on  Muriel." 


276    THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"It  is  hard  on  her/'  Tony  interrupted.  "And 
it's  all  your  fault." 

"Not  all,"  Tanstead  said  mildly. 

"Not  all  your  fault?  Why,  what  d'yer 
mean?  Of  course  it's  your  fault.  Dammit,  you 
haven't  played  the  game,  old  man,  you  haven't 
really." 

"You  don't  know  the  circumstances,"  Tan- 
stead  told  him  severely,  "and  you  can't  judge 
without  knowing  them." 

"I  know  you  married  the  nicest,  prettiest,  clev- 
erest little  woman  in  London — instead  of  which 
you  go  and  carry  on  like  this." 

"You  think  it's  just  caprice  and  original  sin, 
I  suppose,"  Edward  answered  him  bitterly. 
"That's  the  way  people  always  jump  to  conclu- 
sions. They  never  stop  to  consider  what  the 
causes  may  be." 

"Generally  the  same  old  cause,  old  man,  isn't 
it?"  asked  Tony,  with  his  "you-can't-humbug- 
me"  expression  and  tone. 

"Suppose  you  married,"  Edward  began,  rather 
in  the  manner  of  counsel  putting  a  defence  before 
a  jury — "suppose  you  married  and  found  your 
wife  didn't  .  .  .  didn't  want  to  have  children 
.  .  .  and  told  you  her  idea  of  marriage  was 
friendship,  and  a  room  to  herself  with  the  door 
locked " 

"I  may  be  a  fool,"  Tony  interrupted,  "but  I 
shouldn't  be  such  a  fool  as  to  marry  a  woman  hke 
that." 

"That's  what  I  should  have  said  .  .   .  once." 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     277 

"But  look  here,  you  aren't  talking  about  you 
and  Muriel,  are  you?" 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"I  say!" 

Tony  could  not  have  been  more  astounded  if 
he  had  been  told  that  after  all  the  world  had  been 
discovered  to  be  flat.  Indeed  that  would  not  have 
affected  him  so  much ;  it  would  not  have  necessi- 
tated anything  like  such  a  mental  effort  to  adjust 
his  intelligence  to  the  unsuspected  reahty  of 
things. 

"Did  she  care  for  someone  else?" 

"No,  she  doesn't  care  for  men  at  all  .  .  .  not  in 
that  way." 

"Come,  I  say,  I  can't  swallow  that.  There 
must  have  been  some  other  feller." 

"Perhaps  you,  Tony,"  Edward  said,  with  bit- 
ter humour. 

The  satire  was  quite  lost. 

"Well,  do  you  know,"  said  Tony  seriously,  "I 
was  just  wondering  about  that  myself." 

Edward  laughed  at  this  outright;  but  savagely, 
not  as  if  he  thought  it  funny. 

"I  don't  see  anything  to  laugh  at,  old  man.  I 
tell  you  there  was  a  little  woman  down  in  Corn- 
wall  " 

"Yes,  you've  told  me  about  her  before," 
Edward  broke  in  wearily.    "I  must  go." 

"But  look  here,"  said  Tony,  button-holing  him, 
"I'm  in  a  deuced  awkward  fix." 

"How's  that?"  Edward  asked  the  question 
without  interest. 

"Well,  you  see,  after  .  .  ,  well,  after  the  other 


278     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

afternoon,  you  know,  I  told  Muriel  if  ever  she 
wanted  a  friend  to  send  for  me.  Dashed  if  she 
hasn't  sent  for  me  now." 

"Now's  the  chance,  then,"  said  Edward  grimly, 
"to  prove  your  words." 

*'Yes,  I  know.  But  look  here,  what  you  told 
me  just  now,  you  weren't  rotting,  eh?" 

"The  plain  truth,  Tony.  That's  how  it 
stands." 

"Well,  that  makes  a  difference,  doesn't  it? 
You  see,  I  like  Muriel  as  a  companion  awfully. 
For  one  thing,  she  does  pretty  well  all  the  talk- 
ing. Some  women  bother  a  feller  so.  They  want 
to  know  how  you  like  a  play,  or  if  you  don't  think 
someone  or  other  badly  dressed,  or  whether  you 
prefer  Paris  to  London.  Muriel  just  says  the 
play's  good  or  rotten,  or  'so-and-so's  looking 
hideous,'  and  that  settles  it.  But  then,  don't  you 
know ^" 

Edward  had  been  paying  scarcely  any  atten- 
tion to  Tony's  remarks.  He  was  absorbed  in  his 
own  thoughts.  Now  he  suddenly  recalled  some- 
thing that  had  been  said. 

"Did  you  say  Miu*iel  has  sent  for  you?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes;  but  what  you've  told  me  naturally — 
well,  it  alters  my  feelings." 

A  sudden  light  broke  in  upon  Edward. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  exclaimed,  "you  don't  mean 
to  say —  You're  a  damned  funny  kind  of 
friend." 

Tony's  eyes  opened  wide. 

"You  don't  object,  do  you?" 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     279 

"Not  object  to  your  making  love  to  my  wife? 
What  the  devil  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  old  man,  I  thought  if  you  left  Muriel, 
do  you  see " 

"If  I  do,  I  shall  provide  for  her,"  said  Edward 
hotly. 

"All  right,  you  needn't  get  shirty,"  Tony 
grumbled  sulkily.  "I  don't  see  that  you've  much 
right  to  complain." 

A  sudden  feeling  of  helplessness  came  over 
Edward. 

"No,"  he  admitted  limply.  "I  don't  know  that 
I  have." 

"I  don't  I  eel  the  same  about  it  as  I  did, 
though,"  Tony  continued.  "What  would  you 
advise?" 

"Good  God,  how  can  I  advise  you?" 

"No,  you  can't,  of  course,  I  wasn't  thinking," 
Tony  said  apologetically.  "Well,  I'll  get  those 
things  for  you,  old  man,  if  you'll  tell  me  what 
you  want." 


§iv 

Muriel  had  a  premonition  that  Tony  was  going 
to  fail  her  as  soon  as  he  came  into  the  room.  He 
was  uneasy;  he  answered  her  jerkily  with  Yes  or 
No ;  he  did  not  look  at  her  when  he  spoke.  She 
was  almost  dissuaded  from  her  intention,  but  she 
was  still  feeling  desperate,  so  she  obliged  herself 
to  put  him  to  the  test. 

"You're  one  of  the  faithful  sort,  Tony,"  she 
said,  after  they  had  talked  for  a  few  minutes 


280     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

about  nothing.  "I  feel  I  can  always  count  on 
you." 

"Rather,"  said  Tony  without  enthusiasm. 

Muriel  had  to  make  an  effort  to  go  on. 

"When  you  said  you'd  always  be  ready  if  I 
wanted  a  friend " 

"I  meant  that,"  he  jumped  at  the  word;  "I'm 
your  friend  for  ever  and  ever  world  without  end." 

"Thank  you,  Tony.  I — I  think  it's  sweet  of 
you  to  have  cared  for  me  always,  ever  since  those 
old  days  when  we  were  in  the  Temple  together." 

Tony  wriggled,  said  nothing. 

"And  it  was  chivalrous  of  you  to  offer — ^to 
make  the  offer  you  did  the  other  night." 

"Eh?    Oh,  yes." 

"Perhaps  you've  thought  better  of  it." 

"Well,  I  have  been  thinking." 

"Yes?"  said  Muriel  miserably,  crushed  by  the 
humiliation  she  was  going  through. 

"Well,  d'yer  think  we  should  hit  it  off  quite?" 

"No,  perhaps  not,  Tony." 

"Yes,  see  if  you  couldn't  hit  it  off  with 
Edward " 

"But  we've  always  got  on  splendidly — or  al- 
most always." 

"In  some  ways,  perhaps.  But  not  in  every 
way,  or  why  should  he  go  and  take  up  with  this 
Mrs.  What's-her-name?" 

Suddenly  Muriel  saw  what  had  happened. 

"Have  you  seen  Edward?"  she  asked. 

"Yes;  he  asked  me  to  come  and  get  him  some 
things  he  wanted  from  here."  Tony  brightened 
up  at  this  change  of  subject. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     281 

"I  see,"  said  Muriel  bitterly.  "I  see.  It's 
a  pity  women  can't  stick  together  as  men  do. 
First  the  Bishop  backs  Edward  up,  and  then 
you.  However,  it  doesn't  matter.  I've  got  to 
go  out,"  she  added  coldly;  "yo^  can  find  the 
things  Edward  wants,  I  suppose." 

As  she  swept  along  the  passage  to  her  room, 
she  said,  "Well,  that's  that,"  and  then  as  a  kind 
of  defiance  to  the  doubts  and  depression  that 
had  settled  upon  her: 

"After  all " 


CHAPTER  XXI 


After  Margaret  had  seen  Muriel  in  her  home 
she  told  herself  more  emphatically  than  ever  that 
the  change  of  circumstances  proposed  by  the 
Bishop  "would  never  do."  The  backbone  of  her 
resolution  was,  as  it  had  been  from  the  first,  the 
wish  to  keep  the  children  under  her  own  guid- 
ance, but  she  put  that  into  the  back  of  her 
thoughts,  laying  stress  rather  upon  the  difficulty 
she  would  have  in  giving  Edward  such  a  home  as 
would  content  him  after  his  life  with  Muriel. 
She  saw  now  that  she  had  never  really  tried  to 
construct  the  situation  that  would  result  from 
a  discovery  of  Edward's  second  establishment; 
she  had  let  her  mind  drift  round  it,  always  with 
the  implied  hope  that  some  day  her  position 
would  be  redeemed  from  its  irregularity;  she  had 
never  faced  the  details  of  it.  They  worked,  there- 
fore, all  the  more  powerfully  upon  her  now. 

Edward  went  down  to  see  her;  came  away 
puzzled  by  her  obstinacy.  He  did  not  suspect, 
would  not  have  understood  if  he  had  been  told, 
that  her  passion  for  him  had  its  roots  in  the 
maternal  instinct,  that  it  died  away  as  soon  as 
she  had  the  children  she  had  longed  for  and  could 
pour  out  on  them  the  wealth  of  her  affection. 

Her  attitude  surprised  him,  yet  he  could  not  sup- 

282 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     283 

press  the  reflection  (though  he  did  try)  that  there 
were  difficult  times  before  all  of  them  if  they 
followed  the  Bishop's  counsel.  Had  he  been 
capable,  like  Muriel,  of  laying  bare  his  sensations 
and  motives,  he  would  have  been  forced  to  admit 
that  he  would  prefer  to  go  on  as  they  were.  He 
could  see  within  reach  the  goal  of  his  ambition; 
had  certainly  enjoyed  his  life  with  Muriel  since 
he  had  had  what  he  always  thought  of  as  his 
"home"  with  Margaret.  He  had  enough  money 
saved  to  keep  them  all  from  want,  but  what  a 
different  face  the  world  would  show  to  him  if  his 
existence  were  to  be  thus  suddenly  transformed! 
Tanstead  had  neither  the  intellectual  curiosity 
nor  the  intellectual  honesty  which  are  needed  by 
those  who  try  to  obey  the  injunction,  "Know 
thyself."  Yet  he  did  feel  that  there  was  some 
unreality  in  his  argument  with  Margaret,  and 
this  made  him  irritable.  He  would  have  liked 
to  follow  his  unexpressed  inclination  and  to  say: 
"My  dear  girl,  I  think  you  are  right.  It  would 
be  most  convenient  to  leave  things  as  they  are." 
Instead,  he  felt  bound  both  by  his  "duty  towards 
her"  and  by  a  vague  belief  that  his  duty  to  society 
lay  in  the  same  direction,  to  press  on  Margaret 
the  Bishop's  solution.  But  since  he  was  argu- 
ing against  his  inclination  (unexpressed,  it  is 
true,  yet  none  the  less  powerful),  he  was  ill- 
tempered,  he  was  not  persuasive,  he  left  Mar- 
garet feeling  that  he  had  come  across  something 
in  her  nature  which  he  had  not  noticed  before,  a 
stubbornness,  a  self-reliance,  quite  opposed  to 
the  clinging,  dependent  humility  which  he  had 


284     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

fancied  up  to  now  to  be  at  the  base  of  her  char- 
acter. 

Nor  was  the  Bishop  more  successful.  He  saw 
Margaret  also,  and  got  very  little  out  of  her. 
To  her  awe  of  his  office  was  added  her  conviction 
that  it  would  be  entirely  useless  to  try  and  make 
him  look  at  the  matter  through  her  eyes.  She  had 
been  truly  startled  by  her  discovery  during  their 
tea-table  talk  about  marriage  that  "different  ar- 
rangements," as  she  called  them,  had  been  ac- 
cepted at  different  periods.  This  gave  her  a  new 
view  of  the  matter,  but  she  was  sure  that  it  was 
not  a  view  which  he  could  ever  take,  therefore  she 
said  nothing  about  it.  She  kept  to  the  determina- 
tion she  had  formed  to  see  Edward's  wife  again 
before  anything  was  decided. 

"Edward's  wife  need  not  be  considered,"  the 
Bishop  told  her.  "She  has  chosen  her  own  path. 
I  cannot  very  well  understand  your  anxiety  to 
see  her." 

"I  didn't  imagine  her  like  she  is,"  Margaret 
murmured. 

"She  is  selfish  and  heartless.  There  is  no  need 
for  you  to  think  about  her." 

Margaret  shook  her  head. 

The  Bishop,  unusued  to  opposition  in  Pata- 
gonia, grew  irritable  also.  He,  like  Edward, 
had  come  upon  an  unexpected  vein  in  Margaret. 
He  had  formed  in  his  mind  a  definite  conception 
of  her  mental  and  moral  qualities ;  there  was  every 
excuse  for  his  feeling  annoyed  when  she  showed 
him  that  he  had  been  hasty,  and  obliged  him  to 
cast  about  for  some  other  clue  to  her  character. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     285 

At  last  he  concluded  that  nothing  could  be 
settled  until  Margaret  had  had  her  way.  He 
agreed  to  arrange  a  meeting  at  which  he  and 
Edward  would  be  present.  Margaret  raised  no 
objection  to  that. 


§  ii 

Why  Mrs.  Seymour  should  want  to  see  her, 
Muriel  could  not  guess.  She  did  not  try  very 
hard;  the  threat  of  an  approaching  break-up  of 
her  pleasant  life  lay  heavily  over  her,  took  away 
all  her  energy  of  mind  and  body  both.  All  the 
comfort  she  got  from  Anne  was:  "What  else 
could  you  expect?"  She  knew  that  would  be 
the  verdict  of  most  of  her  friends.  That  made  her 
feel  bitter  and  aggrieved,  though  reason  told  her 
she  had  no  just  grievance.  She  had,  as  the  Bishop 
said,  chosen  her  path,  and  she  could  acknowledge 
in  her  unresentful  hours  that  she  ought  not  to 
complain  of  the  precipice  to  which  it  had  led  her. 
But  those  hours  were  becoming  fewer;  she 
awaited  the  conference  in  a  mood  which  grew 
more  and  more  aggressive. 

The  Bishop  was  the  first  to  arrive.  That  was 
uncomfortable  for  both.  He  merely  bowed  and 
sat  down.  There  was  a  silence  for  half-a-minute, 
then  Muriel  flashed  out : 

*'I  can't  see  what  business  this  is  of  yours." 

The  Bishop  looked  at  the  door,  wishing  that 
someone  would  open  it  and  come  in. 

"I  have  urged  upon  Edward  that  his  duty  is 


286     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

to — to  his  children  and  their  mother.  For  you 
I  have  no  sympathy." 

"I  don't  ask  for  your  sympathy,"  Muriel  as- 
sured him. 

"Deplorable  as  Edward's  conduct  has  been, 
I  consider  you  mainly  responsible  for  it." 

"I  can  quite  beheve  that,"  said  Muriel  sar- 
castically. 

"Mrs.  Seymour,  however,  is  unwilHng  that  any 
step  should  be  taken  until  she  is  satisfied  that  you 
— that  you,  in  fact,  agree.  She  will  be  satisfied, 
I  think,  if  you  assure  her  that  she  is  not  wronging 
you." 

"Not  wronging  me!  Of  course  she's  wronging 
me.  She's  taking  away  my  husband  and  turning 
me  out  of  my  home,  the  only  home  I've  got. 
Wh^t  do  you  call  that?" 

"Edward  will  no  doubt  provide  for  you.  And 
you  certainly  told  me  the  other  day  that  a — 
'break-up  of  partnership,'  I  think  you  called  it 
— ^would  not  cause  you  any  pain." 

"I  think  it's  very  unfair  to  turn  one's  own 
words  against  one,  and  twist  them  about  like 
that.    You  quite  misunderstood  me." 

The  Bishop  spread  his  hands  with  a  slight 
bow,  as  if  to  dismiss  that  aspect  of  the  question. 
He  went  back  to  the  main  theme. 

"What  Mrs.  Seymoiu*  wishes  to  be  sure  of,  I 
think,  is  that  you  do  not  feel  towards  Edward 
as — a  wife  ought  to  feel  to  her  husband." 

"Oh,  'ought,'  'ought,'  'ought'!  That  hateful 
word!  Who  gave  you  the  right  to  lay  down  what 
people  ought  and  ought  not  to  do?" 


THE  T'RUIT  OV  TH:e  tree    2Slf 

"I  am  merely  expressing  the  view  of  all  right- 
minded  men  and  women,"  the  Bishop  replied, 
with  a  slight  lifting  of  his  brows.  "There  are 
certain  standards  of  conduct  to  which  it  is  our 
duty  to  conform." 

"That's  another  of  your  detestable  words — 
*duty* — another  of  the  sticks  that  dull  people  use 
to  beat  everyone  into  their  own  stupid  shape 
with." 

"I  am  not  going  to  argue  with  you,"  said  the 
Bishop. 

In  spite  of  her  hardness  of  manner  and  dis- 
courtesy of  speech,  the  Bishop  noticed  that 
Muriel  had  become  more  womanly.  He  was  puz- 
zled by  this  change.  He  did  not  understand  that 
she  had  altered  from  an  amused  observer  of  life  , 

into  a  woman  fighting  for  her  "man"  and  her  v 
home.  However  calmly  she  might  review  her 
position  when  she  was  alone  and  in  analytical 
mood,  her  fighting  instinct  was  aroused  by  the 
attempt  to  take  that  position  from  her.  The 
opening  skirmish  with  the  Bishop  increased  her 
antagonism  to  Mrs.  Seymour,  who,  entering  at 
this  moment,  was  chilled  by  the  coldest  of  nods, 
and  could  not  be  comforted  by  the  warmth  of 
the  Bishop's  greeting. 

Edward  arrived  last;  he  was  clearly  out  of 
temper.  He  walked  into  the  room  without  a 
word  to  anybody,  made  for  the  mantelpiece,  stood 
with  his  hands  upon  it,  glowering  into  the  fire. 

"I  have  come  under  protest,"  he  announced. 
"I  consider  this  meeting  unnecessary  and  fool- 
ish." 


288     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"I  am  sorry,"  faltered  Margaret;  she  nearly 
called  him  "Edward,"  but  stopped  her  tongue 
just  in  time.  "I  am  sure  it  is  necessary  for  us 
to  meet  and — and  talk  things  over." 

Then  she  turned  to  Muriel. 

"It  isn't  foolish  to  try  and  save  anyone  from 
pain  and — and  suffering.  I  want  to  try  and  save 
Mrs.  Tanstead  from  that." 

Muriel  smiled  ironically. 

"Very  kind  of  you,  I'm  sure,"  she  said  crisply. 

"The  Bishop  says  it  would  be  right  for — for 
Edward  to  come  and  live  with  me.  But  I  can't 
feel  sure  that  anything  is  right  which  causes  pain 
to  people." 

"You  are  talking  foohshly,  my  child,'*  the 
Bishop  interrupted. 

"It  would  pain  you,  wouldn't  it,  to — if  we  did 
as  the  Bishop  says?"  Margaret  went  on. 

"You  seem  to  forget,"  Muriel  said  irritably, 
"that  I  am  Edward's  wife." 

"I  understood  you  to  say,"  put  in  the  Bishop, 
"that  you  would  never  wish  to  keep  him  against 
his  will." 

"Edward,"  said  Muriel,  "do  you  wish  to  leave 
me?" 

"Please  consider  me  out  of  this,"  he  responded. 
"I  have  protested  against  the  whole  business." 

"You  disappoint  me,  Edward,  my  boy,"  the 
Bishop  interjected  sadly. 

Margaret  was  watching  Edward  closely. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  Mrs.  Tanstead  has  a 
right  to  put  that  question." 

"I  refuse  to  take  any  part  in  the  discussion," 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     289 

snapped  Edward,  still  with  his  hack  turned. 

"Come,"  said  the  Bishop,  "the  point  is  quite 
simple.  If  you"  (he  appealed  to  Muriel)  "will 
repeat  what  you  told  me  the  other  morning,  your 
attitude  will  be  plain." 

"Oh,  don't  keep  throwing  what  I  said  at  me 
like  that.    It  is  so  stupid." 

Then  she  turned  to  Margaret. 

"So  you  think  you  have  a  better  right  to  Ed- 
ward than  I?" 

"No,  no,"  Margaret  answered  quickly,  and 
then  added  plaintively:  "I  only  want  what  is 
best  for  us  all." 

"Do  you  think,"  asked  Muriel,  "it  would  be 
best  for  me  to  be  turned  out  of  my  house?" 

"No,  oh  no!" 

"Then,"  said  Muriel  curiously,  "yo^  don't 
want  to  take  Edward  away?" 

She  could  see  there  was  something  in  the  back- 
ground of  Margaret's  mind  which  the  men  had 
not  yet  suspected. 

Impulsively  Margaret  repHed: 

"I  want  things  to  go  on  as  they  are." 

§  iii 

The  Bishop  looked  aghast  at  this  unexpected 
blow. 

"Margaret,  have  you  gone  out  of  your  mind?'* 

"No;  but  I've  been  thinking,"  Margaret  hur- 
ried on.  "What  you  said  about  Pericles  and — 
Aspasia"  (she  was  addressing  Muriel)  "seemed 
just  to  fit  our  case." 

"But  you  told  me,  Margaret,"  interrupted  the 


290     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

Bishop  sternly,  "that  your  dearest  wish  was  to 
be  properly  married  to  Edward." 

"Yes,  I  do  feel  that  sometimes.    I  did  then." 

"What  has  made  you  alter  your  mind?  You 
disappoint  me  grievously,  Margaret." 

"But  think  what  it  would  mean.  Edward 
would  lose  his  work.  Mrs.  Tanstead  would  lose 
her  home.  Edward  would  have  to  change  a  great 
deal  in  his  life.  He  might  get  tired  of  being  with 
me  altogether." 

The  Bishop  looked  angrily  at  his  godson. 

"Edward,"  he  said,  "how  can  you  remain 
silent?" 

"All  this  is  most  undignified  and  most — irreg- 
ular," Edward  replied  harshly.  "I  will  have  no 
part  in  such  folly." 

"You  see,"  Margaret  continued  in  her  plain- 
tive tone,  "I  can't  be  such  a  companion  to  you, 
Edward,  as — Mrs.  Tanstead  can.  I  never  could 
be.  Look  at  this  room.  I  could  never  make  a 
room  look  hke  this.  Nor  could  you,  Edward; 
you  tried  once  at  the  cottage,  you  remember, 
and  had  to  give  it  up  as  a  bad  job." 

Edward  turned  half  round. 

"What  on  earth  has  furnishing  got  to  do  with 
it?"  he  inquired  in  a  voice  of  suppressed  annoy- 
ance. 

"Why,  everything,"  said  Margaret,  astonished 
at  his  question,  "to  you,  at  any  rate;  you're  so 
particular." 

Muriel  was  interested  in  this  odd  woman. 

"Well,  go  on,"  she  said,  not  impolitely,  but 
as  if  anxious  to  hear  more. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     291 

"Of  course,"  continued  Margaret,  thus  en- 
couraged, "it's  a  dreadful  position  we've  got 
into,  and  I  think  we're  all  to  blame  for  it.  But 
we  can't  go  back.    We  can't  undo  anything." 

"Edward  can  to  some  extent  repair  the  wrong 
he  has  done  you,"  said  the  Bishop. 

"The  wrong  we  did,  we  did  together,"  Mar- 
garet responded.  "The  fault  was  as  much  mine 
as  his." 

"No,  no,  Meg,"  came  from  Edward.  "I  can't 
let  you  say  that." 

"Yes,  but  it  was,"  she  persisted.  "I  knew  I 
could  never  be  happy  as  I  was.  I  longed  for  a 
home  and  children  to  look  after.  It  was  that 
which  drew  us  together." 

"But  you — cared  for  me  too,"  he  urged. 

"Yes,  of  course  I  cared,  Edward,  and  you 
know  I  do  still.  But  that  alone  wouldn't  have 
made  me  do  what  I  thought  was  wrong " 

"And  you  can't  be  happy,"  said  the  Bishop, 
"so  long  as  you  continue  to  do  wrong." 

Margaret  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

"The  last  four  years  have  been  very  happy 
ones,"  she  faltered,  "most  of  the  time.  I  think 
Edward  has  been  happy.  And  you  too?"  she 
asked  of  Muriel. 

"Yes,"  admitted  Muriel,  "I  have  had  nothing 
much  to  complain  of." 

"We're  two  such  different  kinds  of  women," 
Margaret  continued.  "You're  clever  and  intel- 
lectual. You  can  talk  to  Edward  about  all  sorts 
of  things  I  know  nothing  of.    If  he'd  married 


292     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

me  to  begin  with,  it  might  be  different.  But 
now,  wouldn't  it  be  a  great  risk  to  make  such  a 
great  change?" 

The  Bishop  threw  up  his  hands. 

"I  thought  you  at  any  rate  were  a  good 
woman,"  he  said  reproachfully. 

"Can't  we  be  good  and  see  things  as  they  really 
are  at  the  same  time?"  asked  Margaret  gently. 
*'I  am  only  trying  to  use  common  sense." 

"Your  attitude  astounds  me,"  the  Bishop  said. 

"I  am  terribly  sorry  to  shock  you — Father!" 

"You  do  shock  me  beyond  words." 


CHAPTER  XXII 


But  by  this  time  the  Bishop  had  become  con- 
scious that  Margaret  was  acting  under  the  in- 
fluence of  some  motive  which  he  had  not  yet 
grasped. 

"Margaret,"  he  said,  "there  is  something  in 
your  mind  which  you  are  hiding  from  us." 

"It's  so  difficult  to  explain,"  she  answered. 
"You  see,  I  thought  the  law  of  marriage  was 
sacred,  eternal !  I  thought  it  had  always  been  the 
same  as  it  is  to-day." 

"So  it  has,"  affirmed  the  Bishop. 

"Oh,  come,  Bishop,"  said  Muriel.  "Let's  be 
honest.    What  about  Solomon?" 

She  was  in  better  spirits.  She  seemed  to  dis- 
cern the  promise  of  a  pathway  out  of  her  diffi- 
culties. 

"Besides,"  continued  Margaret,  "you  say 
yourself  that  Edward's  marriage  isn't  a  true  one, 
and  yet  the  law  calls  it  regular,  and  the  Church 
too." 

The  Bishop  turned  away  impatiently. 

"Now  you  can  feel  what  it's  like  to  have  your 
own  words  turned  against  you,"  said  Muriel  tri- 
umphantly.    "You  don't  like  it  yourself." 

"The  whole  thing,"  Margaret  went  on  hur- 
riedly, "is  a  tangle.    But  this  is  how  I  look  at 

293 


294     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

it.  We're  all  being  fairly  happy,  and  now  if  we 
make  a  change,  Edward,  as  I  said  just  now,  will 
lose  his  work  and  his  position,  and  Mrs.  Tan- 
stead  will  lose  her  home,  and  everything  will  be 
upset  and  difficult." 

Edward  had  been  listening  with  more  and 
more  attention.    Now  he  turned  round. 

"Meg,  you're  trying  to  sacrifice  yourself  for 
me,"  he  said. 

"At  last  you've  had  the  manliness  to  speak," 
the  Bishop  observed  caustically. 

"You  mustn't  do  it,  Meg.  We  can  manage 
somehow." 

"Yes,  I  dare  say  we  should  manage,  but " 

"I  am  sure,"  said  the  Bishop  sharply,  "that 
you  are  keeping  something  back." 

"Well,"  Margaret  admitted  desperately,  "IVe 
thought  it  over  it  seemed  so — so  risky  to  change 
things.  If  the  Church  made  a  mistake  about  Ed- 
ward's marriage  before,  it  might  make  a  mistake 
again.  And  if  marriage  wouldn't  really  bind 
him " 

"Of  course  it  would  bind  him,"  the  Bishop 
broke  in,  "and  you,  too,  by  the  most  solemn  of 
all  oaths." 

"But  if  that  is  so,"  Margaret  queried,  with  a 
puzzled  expression,  "he  is  bound  already." 

"I  told  you,"  said  the  Bishop,  "that  priests 
were  liable  to  make  mistakes.  There  can  be  no 
mistake  now.  You  know  that  you  and  Edward 
are  suited  to  one  another." 

"That  would  be  the  advantage  of  a  trial  mar- 
riage, wouldn't  it?"  put  in  Muriel,  unable  to  re- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     295 

sist  the  opportunity  of  scoring  off  the  Bishop. 

"Besides,"  said  Margaret,  "we  don't  know  that 
we  should  get  on  so  well  if  we  lived  together 
always." 

"Of  course  you  would,  being  sensible  people," 
the  Bishop  urged.  "And  in  any  case  marriage 
would  regularise  your  position." 

"I  don't  care  about  that,"  Margaret  declared. 
"I  don't  want  any  social  position.  I've  got  the 
children  to  bring  up.    That's  enough  for  me." 

"Yes;  but  consider  their  future." 

"I  do.  What's  the  good  of  letting  everybody 
know  that  their  birth  certificates  aren't  true?" 

"There's  something  more  behind  all  this,"  said 
the  Bishop,  in  a  bafiled,  disheartened  tone. 

§ii 

"Hadn't  you  better  be  frank  with  us?"  asked 
Muriel. 

Margaret  glanced  at  Edward,  who  had  gone 
back  to  his  old  attitude.  She  seemed  to  hesitate, 
then  to  make  up  her  mind  to  speak. 

"Well,"  she  said  defiantly,  "I  want  my  chil- 
dren to  myself.  I  want  to  bring  them  up  in  my; 
own  way." 

Edward  swung  round  abruptly. 

"Then  you  were  fooling  me  when  you  said  you 
wished  we  could  be  really  husband  and  wife?'* 
he  asked  angrily. 

"No,  of  course  I  wasn't,  Edward.  I  did  wish 
it.  But  somehow,  when  it  came  near,  I  began  to 
be  afraid." 


296     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"Afraid  of  what?"  he  demanded. 

"Nothing  in  particular,  nothing  definite.  But 
the  truth  is,  it's  too  late  for  me  to  have  anybody 
interfering.  I  look  forward  to  seeing  Edward 
immensely,  but  if  he  were  there  all  the  time  every- 
thing would  be  different." 

"I'm  sorry  you  distrust  me,"  Edward  barked. 

"I  don't  distrust  you.  It  would  be  natural 
for  you  to  be  master.  But  .  .  .  oh,  can't  you 
see  what  it  would  mean?" 

Edward  turned  away  again  with  a  hopeless 
shrug. 

"Then  you  propose,"  inquired  Muriel,  "that 
we  should  leave  everything  as  it  is?" 

"Yes,  that's  what  I  propose.  Can't  we  do 
that?  We've  got  to  find  some  way  out,  haven't 
we?  You  .  .  .  and  the  Bishop  .  .  .  have  made 
me  feel  quite  differently  about  marriage." 

"How  did  the  Bishop  alter  your  view?"  in- 
quired Muriel  with  curiosity. 

"He  says  marriage  isn't  really  binding  unless 
people  love  one  another.  So  that  it's  really  love 
which  binds  and  not  the  ceremony  at  all." 

For  a  moment  the  Bishop  doubted  whether 
Margaret  was  as  simple  and  straightforward  as 
she  seemed.    He  positively  exploded  into  protest. 

"You  have  altogether  misunderstood  me,"  he 
declared.  "I  should  never  dream  of  holding  such 
a  pernicious  opinion." 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  Margaret  apologised.  "I 
thought  you  said It's  so  diiiicult  to  under- 
stand." 

"So  you  seriously  propose,'*  said  Muriel,  after 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     297 

a  few  moments'  silence,  "that  we  shall  make  no 
change  at  all?" 

"Would  it  make  so  much  difference  to  you 
,  .  .  knowing  about  .  .   .  Edward  and  me?" 

"I  suppose  I  might  get  used  to  it,"  said  Muriel 
reflectively.  "Like  Mrs.  Pericles,"  she  added, 
with  a  smile. 

"This  levity  is  shocking,'*  the  Bishop  com- 
plained sternly. 

"Pity  you  have  no  sense  of  humour.  Bishop," 
Muriel  remarked  airily. 

"This  is  no  time  for  humour." 

"Now  do  you  know,"  replied  Muriel,  "it  seems 
to  me  to  be  one  of  those  occasions  when  a  sense 
of  humour  comes  in  really  useful." 

Then  she  turned  to  her  husband. 

"What  do  you  say  to  Mrs.  Seymour's  scheme, 
Edward?"  she  asked. 

"I  must  have  time  to  think,"  he  answered. 

Once  more  the  Bishop  received  a  shock. 

"Surely,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  indignant  sur- 
prise, "surely  you  could  never  even  dream  of 
consenting  to  such  an  outrageous  plan?" 

"I  don't  seem  to  have  much  say  in  the  matter," 
returned  Edward  bitterly.  "It  looks  to  me 
as  if  I'd  simply  been  made  a  convenience  all 
round." 

There  was  a  silence  after  Edward's  remark, 
which  plunged  into  Muriel's  mind  as  a  stone  sinks 
through  clear  water,  causing  ripples  of  reflec- 
tion which  widened  and  widened  until  she  seemed 
to  have  an  entirely  new  philosophy  of  the  rela- 
tions between  men  and  women  which  she  longed 


298     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

to  be  expounding  to  Anne.  Her  thoughts  were 
taken  off  it  by  Margaret's  voice. 

"Really,"  it  was  saying,  "there's  no  other  way 
out." 

"Of  course  there  is,"  the  Bishop  fumed.  "Ed- 
ward can  ask  his  wife  to  divorce  him.  That  is  the 
proper  course  for  him  to  take." 

Margaret's  face  hardened. 

"Even  then  I  wouldn't  marry  him,"  she  de- 
clared. 

Edward  and  the  Bishop  both  turned  upon  her 
in  amazement. 

"No,  I  wouldn't.  The  children  wouldn't  be 
mine  any  longer.  Of  course  it  would  be  diflPerent 
if  we'd  always  lived  together ;  then  I  should  have 
got  used  to  it.  But  now  it  would  mean  that  when- 
ever Edward  didn't  agree  with  me  he  would  ex- 
pect me  to  give  way,  and  I  can't  do  that.  I've 
had  them  to  myself  too  long.  We  should  quar- 
rel. And  then  I'm  not  clever.  Edward  would 
get  tired  of  being  with  me.  Then  things  would 
be  much  worse  than  they  are  now." 

"You  seem  to  have  taken  leave  of  your  senses," 
the  Bishop  said. 

"I'm  so  sorry  you  think  that,"  Margaret  re- 
phed  humbly.  "I  seem  to  myself  to  have  just 
found  them.  The  whole  difficulty  has  cleared 
up  since  I  heard  about — Pericles." 

"You're  talking  of  what  you  don't  understand, 
Margaret,"  the  Bishop  told  her  impatiently. 
"There  can  be  no  comparison  between  Greek 
society  and  our  own.  Everything  is  different 
now." 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     299 

"I  should  say,"  Muriel  interposed,  "the  chief 
difference  is  that  they  allowed  for  women  not       i 
being  all  alike,  and  we  don't." 

"You  see,"  said  Margaret  apologetically  to  the 
Bishop,  "a  man  wants  a  woman  to  be  so  many 
different  things.     And  generally  she  can't  be         / 
more  than  one.    That's  the  difficulty."  ^ 

"A  good  man  is  satisfied  if  his  wife  is  a  good 
mother,"  the  Bishop  asserted  sententiously. 

Mock-sympathetically,  Muriel  said:  "Good 
men  are  so  scarce,  aren't  they?" 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  said  the  Bishop 
severely.  "No  wonder  England's  greatness  is 
declining." 

Muriel  shrugged  her  shoulders.  Then  she 
turned  again  to  Margaret. 

"So  you  really  think  your  province  is  to  bring 
up  the  children,  and  mine  to  keep  Edward 
amused?" 

"I  think  it  would  be  best  for  all  of  us  to  go 
on  as  we  are." 

"But  surely  you  can  see  how  terribly  immoral 
that  would  be,"  the  Bishop  interrupted  in  a  tone 
of  exasperation. 

"Aren't  you  a  little  unpractical.  Bishop?" 
Muriel  asked,  with  irritating  silkiness  of  manner. 

"You  all  seem  to  me  to  be  mad,"  he  continued 
angrily.  "You  talk  as  if  there  were  no  moral 
law,  no  standard  of  right  and  wrong." 

"Oh,  didn't  you  know?"  Muriel  said  slyly. 
"That  was  abolished  in  England  at  the  Reforma- 
tion. The  right  of  private  judgment  was  set  up 
instead." 


SOO     THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"At  any  rate,  we  shouldn't  be  doing  anyone 
any  harm,"  Margaret  pleaded. 

"To  me  you  are  all  utterly  incomprehensible," 
the  Bishop  said,  reduced  to  helplessness.  "Is 
it  useless  to  appeal  once  more  to  you,  Edward?" 
he  asked,  turning  to  his  godson  with  a  pathetic 
look  of  pained  affection. 

Tanstead  was  touched. 

"My  dear  Pater,  you'd  better  leave  us  to  ham- 
mer this  out  ourselves.  It  isn't  a  thing  we  can 
settle  by  any  book  of  rules." 

"Then  you  accept  this — ^this  immoral  solu- 
tion?" 

"I  have  no  choice." 

The  Bishop  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 
Margaret  was  the  only  one  who  met  his  glance. 
She  murmured:  "I'm  so  sorry  .  .  .  Father."  In 
answer  to  her  he  said,  it  seemed  mechanically, 
"Good-night,  my  child,"  and  walked  towards  the 
door. 

§  iii 

"And  really,  you  know,"  Muriel  said,  telling 
Anne  about  it  afterwards,  "really  I  felt  sorry  for 
him.    He  looked  so — so  beaten." 

"Yes;  and  beaten  by  just  the  one  he'd  put  his 
faith  in  and  was  doing  his  best  for.  I  don't  won- 
der he  said  you  were  all  mad." 

"Mad?  There  never  was  such  astonishing 
sense.  Just  think  what  a  muddle  and  a  mess-up 
there  would  have  been  if  we'd  taken  the  conven- 
tional course.  That  woman's  quite  right,  you 
know.    She'd  bore  Edward  stiff  if  they  were  to- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE     301 

gether  always.  And  think  of  Edward!  No 
judgeship!  Probably  no  practice.  His  career 
smashed  up.  All  of  us  would  have  been  far 
worse  off  than  we  are  now." 

"Well,  it  seems  to  me,"  said  Anne,  "that  youVe 
got  off  very  easily,  far  more  easily  than  you 
deserve." 

"Oh,  you're  as  old-fashioned  as  the  Bishop." 

"You  don't  think  you're  starting  a  new  fash- 
ion, do  you?" 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  returned  Miu*iel  mis- 
chievously. 

She  was  in  high  spirits.  The  life  she  found 
so  pleasant  would  go  on.  For  a  little  while 
there  might  be  an  awkwardness  between  her  and 
Edward,  but  that  would  wear  off.  There  was 
really  no  reason  why  it  should  last.  She  knew 
many  women  who  were  well  aware  of  their  hus- 
bands' "other  arrangements"  and  whose  husbands 
knew  they  knew:  they  were  quite  good  friends. 
This  was  an  unusual  arrangement,  but  already 
she  had  got  used  to  the  knowledge  of  it;  there 
would  be  about  it,  at  any  rate,  no  unpleasant  clan- 
destine, furtive  flavour  such  as  she  had  always 
dishked.  There  was  no  reason  why  she  and  Mrs. 
Seymour  should  not  improve  their  acquaintance- 
ship; she  felt  it  might  be  worth  while  to  know 
more  of  this  simple,  straightforward  soul. 

Margaret,  too,  as  she  travelled  home  to  the 
cottage,  was  pleased  with  the  upshot  of  the  con- 
ference. She  had  not  had  that  High  School 
training  to  which  Aunt  Sybilla  attributed  all 
Muriel's  "oddness."     She  had  no  theories,  bad 


m    THE  FRUIl:  OF  TttE  THEE 

never  analysed  any  process  of  her  thought.  She 
was  shaping  her  hfe  bit  by  bit,  relying  upon  her 
intuitions  (which  she  called  "feelings"),  and  she 
was  satisfied  that  in  this  case  her  feelings  had 
counselled  her  aright.  She  seemed  to  herself  to 
have  escaped  a  threatening  danger.  The  future 
which  had  been  all  at  once  so  uncertain  and 
alarming  was  restful  and  sure  once  more. 

It  was  the  Bishop's  dim  perception  that  she 
had  been  moved  by  the  desire  to  do  what  was 
right  which  most  of  all  in  this  perplexing  matter 
disturbed  his  mind.  Muriel  he  could  understand 
better.  She  was  self-centred ;  she  had  renounced 
all  the  old  religious  and  moral  guidance;  her 
standard  was  convenience.  Edward's  acquies- 
cence shocked  him,  but  could  be  accounted  for 
by  reluctance  to  sacrifice  a  career  mapped  out 
by  ambition  and  for  so  long  steadily  pursued. 
Margaret's  attitude  the  Bishop  could  not  ex- 
plain. Probably  only  a  woman,  capable  of  im- 
agining herself  in  the  same  position,  could  ex- 
plain it. 

When  Edward  got  back  to  the  hotel  to  which 
he  and  the  Bishop  had  betaken  themselves  when 
they  left  the  flat,  he  found  the  Bishop  busy 
packing. 

"Hullo,  Pater,  going  away?"  he  asked. 
**Where  are  you  going?" 

"I  am  going  as  soon  as  possible,  my  boy,  back 
to  Patagonia,  where  life  is  comparatively  simple. 
It  has  grown  too  complicated  for  me  here." 


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